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P2.44 


SIEGE  OF  VICKSBURG 


Songs  of  A  Man  Who  Failed 


The  Poetical  Writings 


OF 


HENRY  CLINTON  PARKHURST 


Ave,  Caesar,  Imperator!  Morituri  te  salutant 


TH;-;  WOODRUFF  PRESS 
Lincoln,  Nebr. 


PNELAN 

Copyright  1921  by 

HENRY  CLINTON  PARKHURST 
Lincoln,  Nebraska 


This  book  will  be  sent,  prepaid,  to  any  address  in  the  world, 
on  the  receipt  of  $2.50.   THE  WOODRUFF  PRESS,  Lincoln,  Nebr. 


CONTENTS 


A    CONFESSION    OF    FAILURE 
Page 

Judith     •  7 

In    Custer's   Honor 30 

On    Prairies    Wild 35 

Border  of  the  Under  World 65 

The   March   of   Orellana 76 

City    of    Kallahootah 86 

IDYLS   OF   BOHEMIA 

Camp    McClellan 93 

Solomon's    Lament 95 

Off  to   the  Wars 95 

Holofernes    at    Zidon 96 

Musings  of  a  Seer  of  Atlantis.  .    '.Hi 

Light   Love   in    Bohemia 99 

The    Ivy 100 

Two  of  a   Kind 100 

Disaster   at    Shiloh 101 

Glorietta    Mountains 101 

Philosophy    of    Cortez 102 

Camoens    102 

Maceo   to   the   Cubans 103 

Passing  the  Golden   Gate ,103 

The  Carib  Chief's   Daughter 104 

My  Chosen   Theme 105 

A    Reflection 106 

Sunday    Night   at    Shiloh 106 

The   Ocean   Shore 108 

Lo!    The  Bridegroom  Cometh...  108 
Llano  Estacado  Fifty   Years   Ago.109 

Desolation  of  Tyrus 109 

A  Scene  at  Shiloh 110 

Alotipique    Ill 

A    Rover's    Adieu 112 

Ruling   Motives    113 

The  World   War 113 

The  Cowboy  Said 114 

Clearing   the   Coast   of  Texas... -114 

The  Temple  of  Patience 116 

To  the  Planet  Mars 116 

The   "New    Day" — 1920 116 

Beulah    Land    116 

Ruins  of  Palenque 116 

"Back  to  the   Farm" 117 

Return  of  the  Dough   Boys 117 

A    Wisconsin    Scene 118 

Walt    Whitman   Verse 118 

Procrustean    Days     118 


Page 

John  Brown's  Reverie 119 

The   Pious  Grafter 119 

Byron      119 

Attila    120 

The    Villain    Died 120 

The  Fate  of  Bruce  Imlay 120 

Winter    in   Florida   Straits 121 

The  Genius  of  Good  Nature 121 

The   Minstrel's    Admonition 122 

Pilgrim    Father   Tercentenary.  ..  122 
St.  George's  Channel  On  a  Clear  « 

Day     123 

The   Big   Book 124 

Woodrow   Loves  the   Limelight.  .  124 

Charlotte   Corday    125 

After    Shiloh    -126 

A    Soldier's   Life 12f> 

To   a    Social    Club   Far    Away...  127 

Buying    Titles    127 

The  Delusion   of   Cabrillo 12f 

A    Stage   Chorus 12* 

Concentrated    Lie    129 

When  a   Widow's  Very   Fair 129 

The   Tomb   of   Byron 130 

The   Main  Guy 130 

Richard  Third    131 

Isles  of   Fonseca 131 

Kenilworth      132 

A    Large  Volume 132 

The  Pedagogue's  Dream 133 

Galveston   Isle    133 

In    Cuban   Waters 134 

Not    Homeless    134 

Sun   Worship   Shores 134 

Danton     135 

A    Youthful   Threnody 185 

France    136 

Mexican    Border    in    1916 !:'.(, 

November,    1920     136 

In    Paris    137 

My  Mother    137 

Our  Planet's  Voyage .137 

Philosophy  of  Lucretius 138 

To    Hortense     138 

Guatemozin's  Appeal  to  Mexitli .  13'.i 

Bivouac   in    Tennessee 1 :'.'.' 

Place  de   la   Concorde 1 40 

Arc   de  Triomphe 140 


774220 


CONTENTS 


Page 

Madre   D'Oro    140 

Joan  of  Arc 141 

The    Old    Conquestador 141 

He   Had   Some   Friends 141 

Cortez    and    Pizarro 142 

The    Poetaster    142 

Dark  Days  in  the   Jerseys 143 

Exultation   of  Pizarro 143 

Lansing   and   Bryan 144 

Dark    Days    in   Bohemia 145 

Eve   Before   Corinth 145 

Battle    of    luka 146 

Arc  of  the   Covenant 146 

Philosophy  of  Pizarro 147 

Tecumseh     147 

Our   Message   of    Peace 148 

Brother-in-Law    to    the    Govern- 
ment      149 

Death   Wound   of   Cordova 149 

Lost    Empires     150 

Valley   Forge    151 

Mount   Tacoma    151 

Napoleon    in    Obscurity 152 

Adios    Bohemia 153 

Rosecrans    at    Corinth 154 

The    American    Empire 155 

Spain    155 

The   Sweet    South 155 

Burial   of   De  Soto 156 

Woman   in  Public   Life 157 

Daniel  Webster    157 

Central  America 158 

One   Land    159 

A  Frontier  Sabbath 159 

Guatemozin's   Death    Plaint 160 

Ariana    161 

Bohemia's   Foe    161 

Dragon    Canon     162 

Column   Vendome    163 

Camp  at  Lake  Providence 164 

Dakota  Snows    164 

Camp    On   the    Coldwater 165 

"Race   Suicide"    165 

Caesar    165 

Napoleon  the   Great 165 

Tamar    165 

The   Dismal    Rule 166 

The  Grief  of  De  Leon 166 

A   Commentary    166 

Voyage   of    Magellan 167 

National  Hymn   167 

The    Minnesota    Massacre 167 


Page 

An   Additional    Pleasure.  ........  168 

The  Old  Paper  Mill 168 

San  Francisco  Sand  Lots 168 

Heroes    168 

War    In    Louisiana 169 

Man   With  a  Jaw 169 

An    Old    Trunk 170 

Almeida  Sailing  for   India 170 

The   Soldier's   Creed 171 

Philosophy    of    Sinaloa 171 

Hobo's    Delight    171 

Mirabeau    172 

An   Oklahoma   Corkscrew 172 

"She  Married  a   Title" 172 

The    Singer     173 

A  Feminine   Query 174 

The    Talk    Fiend 174 

The    World's    Unrest 175 

Horse-and-Horse    175 

Poor   Devil    175 

Reign    of   the    Pedagogue 175 

Countess    Dubarry    176 

Prince    of    Indus 176 

Our    Saints   and   Martyrs    in   Ja- 
pan     177 

Ho  !    For   Vicksburg 177 

My    Forbidden    City 177 

The  Grave  of  Brigham 178 

Julian     178 

Patrick  Henry* 178 

Despair  of  De   Ayllon 179 

"Absent  Minded   Beggars" 181 

Jean  Paul  Jones 181 

Clemenceau    Transposed     181 

The    Philippines    181 

In  Line  of  Battle 182 

Written   in   a   Garret 183 

A    Millionaire's    Reverie 18i 

Only   Some   Soldiers 184 

The  Doomed  Poet 185 

Reverie    of    Columbus 188 

The   Sage   of  Siskiyou 186 

Nautical    Discipline    187 

Life     183 

A    Poet's   Criterion ISO 

The  Vow    190 

The   Substitution   Evil 190 

Ouida    190 

Very    Blank    Verse 191 

A  California  Love  Song 191 

The   Fall   of  Vicksburg 192 

Careful    Piety    193 


CON TEN  is 


Page 

Clio's    Response    193 

The    Col.1    Hunter 194 

Satan    Rebuking    Sin 196 

Salutation    19»> 

Night    in    the   Tropics 196 

Hedouin    197 

Once  More  to  the  Camps I'.is 

Proverbial     Philosophy     198 

Closing    for    Battle 200 

IVivival      201 

Home  at  Last 201 

Hohemia     201 

Death  Speech  of  Rob-rt  Emmet. 202 

Where   Fortune    Smiles 204 

The   Ozark   Hills 204 

A    Youthful    Woe 204 

Pyrrhus    the    King 205 

His    Only   Wealth 206 

Kenesaw     206 

Rival    Chiefs     207 

A    California    Scene 208 

Refrain    in    Dixie 208 

Combat      L'Outrance 208 

Halcyone      208 

Iowa    Autumn    209 

Byron,   Burns   and   Poe 209 

A   Chat   With   Phidias 210 

Retrospection      210 

The     Difference 210 

Lucile     211 

Soldier  of   Fortune 211 

A   Sentimental  Dream 211 

The    Far    South 211 

Carinus    212 

A   Cereal  Story 212 

American   Soldiers    in    France... 212 

The    Demon    "If" 212 

Peace    Apostles    213 

Columbia's   Ptah    213 

Charging    a    Rifle    Pit 213 

Jaytown    Champion    213 

A   Robber   Knight 214 

The    Wild    Sunflower 214 

A    Pirate    Song 215 

Deadly   Toltec    Dope 215 

The  Mexican  Peon 215 

Assault    in    Force 216 

Written    for    "Judith" 217 

The   Way  It   Is 218 

A    Rover's    Fancy 218 

Socorro     218 

Southern    California     219 


Page 

Defeat   of    Nnrvaez 219 

Lexington    220 

A    Cood    Word 220 

Self  Control    220 

A   Campaign   Incident 221 

King   of   the   American    Idiots... 222 

Pine    Hill    223 

Maximilian   and   Carlotta 224 

Cordova   On   Mexican   Seas 225 

"Forget    It"         225 

Massalina     226 

Star  of  Empire. 226 

Commands   to  Me 226 

Polite    Warfare    227 

A    Hopeless    Case 228 

The   Sirens    228 

Under   a    Tree 228 

Columbia    River     229 

A    Blest    Relief 229 

Another    "Drive" 229 

More  Truth  Than   Poetry 230 

"You'll    Never   Get   Rich    If   You 

Do  Hard   Work" 230 

Montezuma      231 

The  Common  Lot 232 

"Ground — Arms  !"      232 

"Go    Down    in    History" 232 

Death  of  Gen.   McPherson 233 

Mesianico    Amerikaniski 233 

Secession  Ordinance  of  Manila.. 233 

Olonois    the    Buccaneer 234 

Highlands    of    the   Hudson 235 

The   Landslide    235 

Andersonville      236 

The    Geisha    Girls 237 

Only  a  Dream 237 

Under    the    Black    Flag 237 

Overland    by   Rail 238 

Arulla     238 

The    Filibuster's    Memory 239 

Our  Brother  Man 239 

Garfield    240 

The  Poor  Man's  Comfort  Gone.  .240 

Rodeo    240 

San   Francisco    Lin<-s 241 

In    Millen    Stockade 241 

The   Scientific    Miner   Man.  ....  .242 

Alexander    243 

The    Human    Hog 244 

Wasted    Efforts    244 

Undecorated    244 

The  Dreams  of  the  Starving.  ..  .245 


CONTENTS 


Page 

Ruins    of    Copan 245 

His   Next   Achievement 245 

An  Old  Timer 246 

The  Stranger   24G 

Bias    of    Priene 246 

A    Discontented    Miner 247 

Near   the  Shoals 247 

A  Confederate  Inferno 248 

At  the  Altar 249 

The  Things  We  Didn't  Do 249 

Dan    Rice    250 

"King  of  Terrors". 250 

Almagro's  March   On   Chile 250 

El   Montecito    251 

Mermentau    251 

The    Author's    Epitaph 252 

Isthmus   of   Darien 252 

A    Country    Hotel 253 

To   Hon.    Robert   Ould 253 

"Everybody    Have    Something".  .253 

Born    to   Misfortune 254 

Natal   Reverie    254 

Raleigh   and    Queen    Bass 255 

Old   Times  in   Utah 255 

An    111    Voyage... 255 

Return  of  the   Veterans 256 

Prairie  Degenerates    256 

Nietzsche's    View   of    Theology .  .257 

Superstition    257 

Pyrrhus    257 

Shakespeare    Improved    258 

Descendant  of  the   Cave  Man... 258 
Commandant   of   Andersonville.  .258 

At  the  Gate 259 

The  Parent's  Injunction 259 

The   Royal   Cotton  wood 259 

The   Filibuster's   Problem 260 

End  of  the  Civil  War 261 

Rolling    Stone    262 

A  Divorce  Case 263 

A    Mining    President 263 

Corsair    Song    of    the     Shipping 

Board    263 

Columbia's   First  Monarch 264 

A  Divorce  Attorney 264 

Madrigal    264 

Don't    Forget    Yourself 264 

To    the   Muses 265 

Our  Fallen  Brave 265 

Divine   Tobacco    266 

Columbus    in    Chains 266 

"My   Fellow   Countrymen" 266 


Page 

The   Section   Hand's    Wish 267 

Coffee   and   Tobacco 267 

Watchful     Waiting    on    the    Rio 

Grande     267 

'A   Vain   Resolve 267 

The   Army   Mule 268 

To    King    Alcohol 269 

MacDonald    at    Wagram 270 

Memorial   Day    271 

A  Tropic   Morn 271 

To  My  Last  Coin .  .272 

Wheel-Chair     Monkey-Shines 272 

Fallen   Castles    272 

The    Monroe   Doctrine 273 

Wolves    273 

The   Choice  of   Bermudez 273 

Revel  in  Leon 274 

The  Cavalier's  Regret 275 

The    World's    Way 275 

Hymn  of  the  Home  Seeker 275 

In   the   Trenches 276 

Wyoming   Hills    276 

A  Day  Iconoclastic — 1920 276 

British    Troops    in    Nicaragua — 

1895     277 

A  Youthful  Defeat 277 

My    Noble    Sire 278 

The   Sunflower   State 278 

Serpent  in  the   Garden.  . 278 

Tempus    Fugit    278 

War  Whoop  of  the  Book  Man.  .279 

A    Tropic    Madrigal 279 

Daniel    Boone     281 

Evolution    of   a    Poem 282 

Columbus   in   a   Storm 283 

Privut   Penshun    Bill 284 

A  Desert  Martyr 285 

My   Own  Mystery 286 

Spanish   Rapacity .287 

Memory      287 

Ode     288 

The  Choice  We   Made 289 

Elegy  in   a  City   Graveyard 290 

To   an    Old    Sweetheart 290 

Nero's    Feast    290 

Entering  the  World  War 291 

The   Bard   Speaks   Well   of   Him- 
self     291 

"The  Great  and  Only  John  L.".292 

Feminine    Suffrage— 1916 292 

Washington     292 

"The    Last    Man" 292 


CONTENTS 


Page    ; 

i     Poems 293 

Love    2'.i."> 

Holy  Boozers  On  the  Bosphorus.293     i 

The    Mariner's    Hope 

Black    Hawk's    Isle 

:  he    296 

Philosophy   of   Jesse   James 296 

Heroes    of    Shiloh 297 

Marc    Antony    

Gen.  George  H.  Thomas 298 

Homeward    Bound     298    I 

The   March   of   Coronado 2'.>'J 

Our    Protean    Master 290 

The  Dream  of  Count  Portala.  .  .300 
The  Dream  of  Lord  Parkhurst.  .301 

My    Seventy-fifth    Birthday 302 

Trajan  at  the   Persian   Gulf 302 

PROSE   ADDENDA 

The   Sorrows    of    Othei's ..307 

Submerging   of   Atlantis 327 

War   a   Law  of  Nature..,  ..329 


Page 

Brutalities  of    War 334 

Number  of  Soldiers   in  the  Civil 

War    337 

Petting   and    Pensioning   Desert- 
ers      339 

The  Call  of  Kansas 341 

An     Oratorical     Gem 342 

Foil it-s  and  Crimes  of  the  Grand 

Autocracy    343 

Eternal  Torture  Chamber  of  the 

Cods    350 

Decadence  of  a  Race 351 

Secession  Movement  in  the  Phil- 
ippines       352 

Sitting    Bull    356 

The   Great   Riddle 359 

My    Military   Laurels 361 

The  Secession  Snake  Still  Alive. 362 
How  the   Water  Came  Down    at 

Lodore    363 

The     Confederacy    and     the     In- 
dians      366 

General   Notes    .  ...369 


.   SONGS  OF  A  MAN  WHO  FAILED 


A   CONFESSION   OF   FAILURE 

/ 

And  thou.  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade! 
I'n n't,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  Fame; 
Dear,  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss  and  all  my  woe, 
Thou  foundst  me  poor  at  first,  and  keepst  me  so; 
Thou  guide  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well. 

— Oliver  Goldsmith. 

I 

A  mere  recital  of  someone's  troubles  is  usually  tedious  and 
uninteresting.  Circumstances,  however,  seem  to  require  that 
I  shall  mention  a  few  of  mine. 

At  the  age-  of  seven  I  began  writing  historical  rhyme  with 
as  clearly  defined  an  ambition  to  win  fame  as  a  poet  as  I 
ever  had  in  after  years.  Passing  the  age  of  seventy-five,  and 
being  nameless,  friendless  and  poor,  I  knew  failure  had 
come — further  effort  was  useless.  With  natural  endowments 
to  achieve  success;  with  industry,  ambition,  resolution,  tenac- 
ity of  purpose — other  qualities  essential — I  missed  the  goal. 
A  variety  of  causes  defeated  me.  Intemperance  was  one,  in 
periodical  attacks — a  disease  inherited  directly  and  indirectly 
from  predecessors  who,  in  turn,  inherited  it  from  other 
predecessors.  The  curse*came  to  me.  With  such  an  incubus, 
mingled  often  with  penury  and  ill  repute,  a  man  is  power- 
less to  enforce  rights,  or  battle  with  strong  and  ruthless  foes. 

Also,  I  had  private  misfortunes;  a  restless,  roving  nature; 
a  discontented  mind,  unsettled  life;  repeated  losses  of  large 
manuscripts  dismayed  me — a  disastrous  result  of  drink;  ex- 
treme poverty  came  at  times,  disgrace,  and  long  periods  of 
deep  obscurity.  Recurring  spells  of  almost  insane  debauch- 
ery— at  times,  usually,  when  a  contrary  course  was  imper- 
ative— harmed  me  vastly.  Chiefly  I  suffered  from  unscrupu- 
lous acts  of  publishers  to  whom  I  offered  books  in  manuscript, 
for  I  did  much  valuable  work  in  the  most  thorough  manner. 
One  prose  work  of  mine  brought  a  fortune  to  those  who  dup- 
licated it.  Without  reputation  or  money,  it  is  useless  to 
write  books.  With  an  ill  reputation  and  DO  money,  I  hawked 


SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

manuscripts   about   the    country   for   years,    merely   to   enrich 
publishers  and  aid  noted  authors. 

With  marvelous  good  fortune  in  some  respects — to  an  extent 
to  often  surprise  me — I  have  had  only  disaster  with  books. 
Mishaps  have  been  innumerable.  Three  times  I  have  lost 
books  on  which  I  had  worked  earnestly  for  years.  In  1895, 
in  Chicago,  I  lost  a  large  manuscript  of  poetical  writings,  but, 
with  a  partial  duplicate  in  a  city  elsewhere,  I  restored  the 
book.  In  the  burning  of  San  Francisco  I  lost  a  large  manu- 
script (mainly  unduplicated)  containing  the  poetical  writings 
of  my  whole  life.  From  newspaper  files,  from  old  letters  to 
friends,  from  the  rubbish  of  old  trunks,  and  by  the  splendid 
aid  of  a  once  powerful  memory,  the  present  volume  has  re- 
sulted. To  bring  it  together  has  required  ten  years  of  effort 
and  thousands  of  miles  of  travel.  Several  long  and  ambitious 
epics  perished  almost  entirely,  and  great  numbers  of, minor 
poems. 

II 

To  defend  the  originality  of  my  writings,  I  started  in  to 
make  a  prose  appendix  for  this  volume — not  a  long  one,  but 
one  sufficiently  ample  in  facts  and  details  to  render  my  state- 
ments not  incredible.  I  gathered  evidence  to  show  that  other 
people  had  been  treated  much  as  I  had  been,  and  some  of  them 
a  great  deal  worse — if  that  were  possible.  Like  a  litigant  in 
court,  I  had  to  submit  a  brief,  or  be  convicted  of  imitating 
and  of  plagiarizing  from  people  who  had  shown  undue  appre- 
ciation of  my  writings.  In  twenty-four  hours  stenographers 
and  typewriters  can  take  the  cream  of  an  unpublished  work. 
This  can  be  handed  over  to  a  writer  of  great  fame,  who  will 
speedily  produce  a  substitute  volume,  and  the  publisher  will 
make  some  money.  He  is  not  in  business  to  lift  nameless 
authors  into  fame,  but  merely  to  make  money.  If  the  victim 
complains,  nobody  will  heed  him,  or  care  anything  about  the 
matter. 

So,  from  time  to  time,  I  compiled  information  bearing  on 
these  matters.  From  daily  papers,  court  proceedings,  patent 
office  litigation — wherever  I  found  it  without  trouble — I  col 
lected  particulars  about  literary  frauds,  forgeries,  counter- 
feits, imitations,  plagiarisms,  and  rival  claims  to  authorship, 
and  claims  to  valuable  inventions  as  well.  Much  encouraged 
at  first,  I  was  finally  nonplussed  at  the  multiplicity  of  cases, 


\    CONFESSION    OF    K. A  in:  RE  5 

and  was  at  last  perplexed  to  discover  that  instead  of  writing 
a  short  appendix  to  a  volume  of  poems,  I  was  really  writing 
a  large  prose  work  on  the  rights  and  wrongs  and  tribulations 
r.f  authors,  and  the  manifold  evils  of  the  publishing  business. 
In  this  dilemma  I  decided  to  merely  assert  the  strict  origin- 
ality of  my  verse,  and  to  publish  it  with  the  lightest  possible 
allusion  to  any  unfair  treatment  I  had  received.  I  shall 
particularize  in  only  a  few  cases  where  it  .appears  to  be 
absolutely  necessary.  I  may  hereafter  use  the  literary  data 
I  collected,  for  it  is  often  interesting,  and  most  of  it  is  well 
authenticated.  In  a  Prose  Addenda  to  this  volume  I  give  a 
•  1'  the  innumerable  cases  that  came  to  my  notice. 

As  for  myself — call  it  weakness  of  character,  mismanage- 
ment, injustice,  cause-and-effect,  Destiny,  Chance,  Providence, 
Fate  or  Circumstance — call  it  what  you  will — the  unpropitious 
Force  was  always  against  me,  and  made  success  impossible. 
At  the  age  of  seventy-seven  I  print  this  volume,  not  in  hope 
of  honor,  fame,  justice,  revenge,  gold,  or  any  recognition 
whatever.  I  print  it  as  a  gladiator  fights  to  the  end — because 
it  is  his  nature  to  do  so.  "O  that  mine  enemy  would  write  a 
book,"  Job  exclaimed  in  his  bitterness.  I  re-echo  the  senti- 
ment with  fervor. 

Slight  inconsistencies  of  thought,  here  and  there  through 
the  volume,  may  be  attributed  to  the  varied  moods  and  vicis- 
situdes of  a  long  life  of  almost  constant  change.  "Blessed  are 
they  who  expect  nothing,  for  they  shall  not  be  disappointed." 

A  nameless  poet  may  well  claim  of  his  pathway  of  thorns: 

"Its  windings  in  and  windings  out 
Leave  one's  mind  in  serious  doubt 
Whether  the  fiend  that  planned  this  route 
Was  going  to  Hell  or  coming  out." 

HKMJY   CLINTON    PAUKIH  KSI 


JUDITH  7 

JUDITH 
PRIORITY  OF  PUBLICATION 

In  1890  I  submitted  a  volume  of  poems  to  a  leading  firm 
of  Boston.  The  opening  part  of  the  book  was  the  present 
poem  of  "Judith."  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  had  for  many 
years  been  in  the  employ  of  that  firm,  but  by  reason  of  a 
wealthy  marriage,  had  retired  to  social  and  literary  leisure. 
He  had  once  published  a  short  piece  of  blank  verse  about 
Judith,  neither  creditable  to  himself  or  the  heroine.  In 
1896,  the  firm  alluded  to  brought  out  a  whole  volume  from 
his  pen  entitled  "Judith  And  Holofernes,"  and  extensively 
advertised  it  as  "really  a  new  poem,  written  on  broader 
lines."  Mr.  Aldrich  also  dramatized  his  book,  and  personally 
superintended  the  play  resultant,  but  the  enterprise  was  a 
failure. 

I  printed  my  "Judith"  entire  on  the  17th  and  18th  of  Sep- 
tember, 1895,  in  the  Davenport  (Iowa)  "Leader" — one  year 
ahead  of  the  Aldrich  volume. 

In  April,  1892  or  1893,  I  published  a  synopsis  of  the  poem, 
with  liberal  extracts  from  it,  in  the  Davenport  (Iowa)  "Demo- 
crat." I  did  so  for  the  reason  that  a  person  I  had  entrusted 
a  copy  of  the  poem  with,  said  it  was  lost. 

To  any  charge  of  plagiarizing  from  Mr.  Aldrich,  or  of 
imitating  him,  I  offer  the  unimpeachable  plea  of  priority 
of  publication. 


JUDITH 

A   ROMANCE   OF   ANCIENT   WAR 

"The  sons  of  God  saw  that  the  daughters  of  men  were 
fair,  and  they  took  wives  from  among  them.  These  bare 
children,  and  the  same  became  mighty  men  of  old — men  of 
renown.  There  were  giants  in  the  land  in  those  days." 

"The  earth  was  filled  with  violence." 

I 

Holofernes,  the  soldier,  came  alone 

To  breathe  a  message  bold,  in  lofty  tone, 

Before  great  Nineveh's  imperial  throne: 

"Twelve  years  the  king  has  held  his  idle  reign 
O'er  palmy   Nineveh's  most  fair   domain; 
Twelve  seasons  passed  in  indolence  and  wine 
'Mong  Asian  girls  of  loveliness  divine. 
Imperial   halls  their  stately  feasts  have   spread, 
Whence  music  pours  to  summer  stars  o'erhead. 
Vast  pageantries,  that  win  a  world's  amaze, 
Obscure  the  pomps  of  prouder  former  days. 
O  Prince  divine!      Assyria's  joyous  king, 


8  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

/ 

I  voice  alarm!   Behold,  an  awful  thing 

A  shadow  throws  across   all   Asia's  path. 

O  seers  of  II  rave  in  rebellious  wrath, 

Of  Heaven's  mortal   foes  high  priests   inveigh; 

These  gilded  pleasure  halls  they'll  burn  away, 

These  festal  slaves  will  fall  their  bloody  prey; 

Though  empire  trembles  to  its  outer  zone, 

Safe  is  the  king,  secure  his  royal  throne. 

Hast  thou  not  heard  of  peerless  Ekbatain, 

That  threatens  Asia  with  disastrous  reign? 

A  city  vast,  new  built  of  massive  stone? 

Fell  slaves  in  armies  ere  its  walls  were  done. 

It  shadows  earth  when  low  the  sunset  lies. 

Its  granite  piles  dismay  the  starry  skies. 

Machines  of  war;  tall,  massy  gates  of  brass 

Guard  well  the  portals  through  which  hosts  may  pass. 

What  foe  hath  Media  found  in  mountains  far? 

O,  King,  Arphaxad  means  with  thee  to  war. 

To  rule  the  world  this  haughty  one  aspires, 

To  conquer  thee,  achieve  thine  empire's  fall, 

O'erthrow  the  worship  of  celestial  fires, 

When  foemen  arm  shall  revel  music  peal? 

Gay  follies  reign,  or  festal  joy  resound? 

A  solemn  fear  thy  faithful  soldiers  feel. 

Thy  minions  wild  of  merry  wassail  song — 

Voluptuaries  pale,  with  roses  crowned — 

Have  ne'er  the  stormy  scenes  of  ,Honor  found. 

0  Prince  arouse  at  martial  Glory's  call, 
To  nobler  cares  a  sovran's  years  belong. 
Thy  sloth  renounce  lest  Nimrod's  empire  fall. 
Gay  trains  of  sirens  from  thy  presence  bar — 
Take  up  thy  sword  and  lead  thy  hosts  in  war. 
For  Ilus  arm!     We'll  burn  that  robber's  nest, 
Ay,  strew  with  Median  bones  the  border  plain; 
When  from  invasion's  toils  our  soldiers  rest, 
The  birds  of  air  will  feast  on  foemen  slain — 
Hyenas  howl  through  mighty  Ekbatain." 

At  once  awoke  all   Shinar's  plains  around 
With  tumult  of  assembling  armies  grand 
That  poured  in  glory  through  Assyria's  land; 
Ambrosial   vales  with   martial   nations  frowned. 
Came  sons  of  Ilus  of  a  thousand  hills 
As  foamy  streams  from  snowy  fountains  melt; 
Where   Tigris   drained   her  sacred   golden   rills, 
Hydaspes  flowed,  or  where  the  vernal  belt 
Of  Ariock  unrolled,  spell  of  war  was  felt. 

Out  went  a  feudal  call  from  royal  hand: 
"All  men  to  arms!  Behold,  array  for  me 
The  flower'of  the  soldiers  of  thy  land, 

1  wage  a  war,  and  lo!  I  summon,  thee." 


I  r  n  i  in 


To  sovrans   of   renown    in   olden    time, 

To  kingdoms  wide  of  crowded  Asia's  clime; 

To  border  chiefs — the  restless   nomads   wild 

Thai    wandered   where  the  plains  in  beauty  smiled; 

To  cities,   princes,   thrones,  ambitious   lords — 

To  earth  afar  went  forth  his  royal  words. 

Wild  heathen  clans  came  in  ferocious  hordes; 

Far  famed  athletes  for  Ilus  drew  their  swords. 

l>nt  Iran  gave  no  sign,  nor  from  the  coast 

Of  soft  Sidonia  or  Cilicia  fair 

Came  plumed  legions  for  Assyria's  host. 

The  cities  of  the  Nile  resentful  were — 

They  slew  high  nobles  who  the  message  bare; 

Prom  Tyrus  came  no  roll  of  chariot  wrheel, 

l><'tiance  rang  from  Galilee's  far  slope, 

Xor  from  the  borders  of  great  Ethiope, 

Rode  men  aligned   in  panoply  of  steel. 

"Are  we  the  vassals  of  Assyria's  .throne?" 

Replied  the  Judah  chiefs  in  haughty  tone. 

"This  mountain  land  is  ours,  and  ours  alone. 

What   means   to   us  a  pagan   sovran's   wars? 

Go   let   him   fight,   the   slaves   receive   their  scars; 

Yea,  let   him   place  our   land   beneath   his  ban. 

Are  we  some  portion  of  his  empire's  plan? 

Be  gone!    From  out  these  hills  will  march  no  man." 

The  King  was  wild,  and  by  his  throne  he  sware 

An  awrful  doom   upon   Propontus   coast; 

Phoenician  domes  would  fall  in  midnight  glare, 

Consuming  flames   atone  Judea's  boast, 

The   Memphian  halls  be  as  a  lion's  lair; 

Woe,  desolation,  be  Samaria's  share. 

Xo  man  of  all  those  nations  would  he  spare — 

Those  human  swune!      The  sword  should   slay   them  all; 

Their  cities,  temples,  palaces,  should  fall; 

The  blood  of  millions  would  his  wrath  appease. 

With   sword   and    fire   all    zones    would   he   devour, 

I'ntil  he  crossed  o'er   Xilus  to  the   seas. 

Then  marched  he  in  array  with  all  his  power, 

To  war  the   Median   where  he  camped  at   ease. 

The  die  was  cast — a  line  the  tale  may  tell. 

The  Median  throne  in  fearful  ruin  fell. 

II 

Soft  Asian  airs  float  heavy  with  perfumes, 
The  Sun  with  added  glory  seems  to  burn; 
I  Hue  heaven's  dome  a  deeper  tint  assumes, 
To  hail   the  King  of   Nineveh's   return. 


10  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Out  from  his  capital  the  myriads  pour; 

They  mass  for  miles  beyond  its  utmost  wall. 

What  joy  prevails;  what  shouts  of  gladness  fall, 

When  swells  afar  the   low,   momentous  roar 

Of  that  colossal,  brave,  imperial  host — 

Like  moan  of  ocean  storms  on  some  wild  coast. 

It  fills  the  heart  with  fear,  with  strange  alarms. 

With  War's  magnificence,  rich  tones  of  sound 

That  move  the  souls  of  all  the  millions  round, 

With   standards  golden,  with  resplendent   arms, 

The  victor  comes;  a  god  he  seems  to  ride — 

That  haughty  ruler  of  the  ancient  world. 

His  glance  is  fire;   in  scorn  his  lip  is  curled. 

O  flight  insane  of  boundless  mortal  pride, 

He  deems  the  peopled  earth — mankind   his   own. 

The  son  of  Ninus,  lord  of  empires  wide, 

Why  should  he  not  of  men  be  deified? 

Vain  olden  gods  for  him  be  cast  aside? 

Sun  worship  cease  in  all  the  Summer  Zone? 

The  power  of  Jehovah  be  defied? 

No  adoration  of  the  stars  be  shown, 

Or  sacrificial  rites  of  sacred  fire 

In  vain,  vile  honor  of  the  golden  Sun? 

These  dreamful  hordes  of  Magi  be  undone? 

Chaldean  seers  no  more  invite  his  ire? 

All  human  form  must  fall  before  his  throne, 

And  hail  him  god  of  Earth — its  god  alone. 

For  many  days  a  vast  procession  streams 

'Neath  storied  arches  of  a  hundred  gates. 

Unclouded  II  pours  down  his  fervid  beams 

O'er  mail-clad  armies  of  proud  feudal  states, 

The  eye  is  dimmed  in  gazing  on  the  scene. 

The  monstrous  piles  of  architecture  bold, 

That  heavenward  loom,  intensify  the  sheen 

Of  burnished  metal,  silvered  arms  and  gold. 

Terrace,  portico  and  winding  tower 

Are  black  with  lookers-on;   below  them  flows 

A  sea  of  ruthless  military  power. 

It   surges  on,  in   streams,  to  find  repose. 

Rivers  of  men  in  polished  armor  pour; 

Chariots  roll,   uncounted  horsemen  speed; 

Squares  choke  with   populace,  and   hundreds   bleed; 

The  air  is  rent  with  clamor  and  uproar. 

With  scenes  of  woe  the  marts  abhorrent  are. 
To  brutal  foes  pale  Median  girls  are  sold. 
Colossal  spoils   of  most   rapacious  war 
Fill  the   great  city  with  unhallowed   gold. 

Ho!   for  pleasure  halls!    In  madness  range — 
Let  every  soul  to  winsome  follies  yield, 


JTDITH  11 

For  princely  soldier  pines  for  joyous  change 

From  gloomy  perils  on  the  martial  field. 

The  timbrel  sound!     Awake  sweet  revel   noise; 

Red  flow  the  vintage  as  in  olden  times. 

O  nymphs  of  Asshur,  wave  your  sportive  toys. 

In  flowers  wreathe!    O  peal  triumphal  chimes 

As  airy  dancers  in  sweet  languor  poise. 

Tis  bright-eyed  Rapture  now  the  soul  employs. 

Assyrian  siren,  pour  the  Tyrian  wine 

That  sparkles  like  those  peerless  orbs  of  thine, 

The  nectar  of  Arabia's  happy  climes, 

And  all  delicious  wave  of  Shebah's  vine. 

Bestrew  the  revel  hall  with  gorgeous  flowers 

Till  dewy  morn  dispels  the  glowing  hours, 

Hail!    delightsome  Pleasure,  festal  joys. 

The   Median   king   from    his   high   throne   is   hurled, 

All    Asia    kneels!      Nineveh    rules    the    world! 

Ill 

The  lutes  are  still,  the  cymbal  sounds  no  more: 
The  reckless  bacchanalian  scene   is  o'er. 
Stern  silence   reigns   throughout  the  city  vast — • 
The  war,  the  triumph  and  its  joys,  are  past. 
Who  now  will  give  the  swords  of  heroes  play? 
For  slayers  of  their  kind  find  wonted  game? 
Restore  the  prod'igal  his  wasted  pay, 
Or   lead  the   soldier  to  new  scenes  of  fame? 

Once  more  the  tyrant's  banner  is  unfurled 

For  cruel  war  against  a  frighted  world. 

His  boast  insane — the  sword  his  sacred  sign: 

"O  Vermin  of  the  sun,  all  earth  is  mine. 

To  me  in  holy  adoration  fall 

All  human  form.     I  am  the  god  of  all. 

The  olden  deities  their  pomps  resign. 

Osiris  dies,  Elohim's  reign  is  o'er: 

Serapis,  Horus,  Ormuz,  are  no  more; 

Lo!    Molok  pales,  and   Remphan's  throne  is  mine; 

Typhon,  Chemosh,  are  no  more  divine, 

Fell  Ormon  fades;  yea,  Dagon  mourns  his  fall — 

The  gods  are  gone,  for  I  outshine  them  all. 

My  sacred  empire  is  to  final   shore — 

To  where  the  billows  round  Atlantis  roar. 

Where  astral  zones,  or  sun,  in  splendor  shine 

O'er  mountains,  vales  or  seas — the  world  is  mine. 

In  earth,  for  other  gods,  shall  be  no  room. 

All  empires,  nations,  thrones,  my  name  adore; 

All  powers,  regions,  isles,  that  orbs  illume — 

Or  awful  ruin  be  their  speedy  doom. 

The  men  who  question   me   will   pass  away; 

Their  towers,  castles,  treasures  be  a  prey; 

Their  temples  foul  with  dead  and  cities  blaze; 


12  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Disaster,  death,  cut  short  their   evil   days. 

No  mortal  man  shall  worship  gods  of  air, 

Nor  moon,  nor  stars;   nor  sunlight  sheen 

On  places  high,  with  altars  builded  there; 

With  fires  of  costly  incense  lit  between, 

Or  blood  of  man  cast  o'er  the  rueful  scene — 

Nor  beast,  nor  bird,   nor   loathsome  serpent  lean, 

Nor    images    of   deities   unseen, 

Nor  ghosts,  nor  graves,  nor  shrines.     In  hate  I  swear 

Extermination  of  the  race  unclean 

That  raves  of  gods  of  air,  of  specters  dim, 

Or  speaks  Jehovah's  name,  or  worships  Him. 

Mine  anger  burns!     Jehovah's  potent  arm 

Will  smite  in  vain  to  save  his  race  from  harm. 

No  more  the  sunshine  warms  his  viper  brood. 

Their  boasted  God  will  rule  a  solitude. 

I'll  make  those  rebel  mountains  flow  with  blood — 

Ay,  heap  their  hated  vales  with  rebel  slain. 

None  of  my  words  are  said  in  vain. 

Holofernes.  the  rod  of  wrath  assume — 

The  choice  of  man  is  homage  or  the  tomb. 

All  idols  fall,  the  flags  of  thrones  be  furled, 

For   I  am  god  of  earth — lord  of  the  world." 

Far  fell  the  fear  of  Asshur's  fatal  sword, 
When    issued    forth    a    wild,    rapacious    horde 
In  power,  splendor,  pomp,  all  Asian  pride — 
With  peal  of  battle  horn,  on  ev'ry  side;- 
The  clang  of  arms,  ferocious  yells,  replied. 
Assyria's  devils  howled  with  fiendish  joy, 
Let  loose  to  ravish,   massacre,   destroy. 
The  nations  wailed  in  misery,  despair; 
The  smoke  of  ruined  cities  filled  the  air, 
Where  swift  the  bloody  hand  of  Asshur  fell 
Burst  forth  a  saturnalian  scene  of  Hell. 

IV 

On  lion's  walls  brave  knights  their  lines  arrayed; 

Their  stately  banners  waved  in  high  disdain; 

Their  trumpets  pealed  across  a  smoky  plain; 

Of  Asshur's  host  those  knights  were  not  afraid — 

They  had  resolved  on  deaths  of  martial  fame. 

The  foe  around  the  mighty  city  drew, 

Its  towers  took  and  its  high  walls  o'er  threw, 

The  populace  and  all  the  strong  men  slew — 

Then  turned  its  mural  beauty  into  shame, 

The  prince    o'er  thrown,   in  golden   fetters   bound, 

Forebore  of  cruel  foemen  to  be  seen 

With  aught  that  savored  of  a  craven's  mien. 

The  victor  cried:     "Remove  this  foreign  hound, 

But  find  him  ample  pain  before  he  dies. 

Kill  thou  his  captive  sons  before  his  eyes, 


irniTH  13 

Then  blind  him  slow  in  sonic  atrocious  wise. 
And    wall    him    up    alive   in    his   own    ground." 
Then  Asshur  spoiled  the  land,  from  center  round. 

Rich  i  urges  heavy   wiih   pure  Ophir  gold, 
That  hung  on  walls  of  liclus  temple  old; 
Rubies,   pearls     in    Oriental    tribute    paid; 
A    golden    Sun    men    venerated    there, 
1'pon  whose  shrine  had  princes'  lives  been  laid; 
Public    hoards    of    gold,   sacred    vessels    rare; 
Huge  treasures  in  the  palace  halls  displayed, 
The  vestal  crowns  and  arms  with  gems  inlaid; 
All   trophies  fine,  the   virgins  thought  most  fair — 
These    were   the    spoils   to    Nineveh   conveyed. 
All  else  within  the  land  became  the  prey 
Of  Asshur's   host  —  the   damsels   fair   to  view; 
Silver,  amber,  gold,  the  treasures  hid  away; 
Rare  foreign  arms,  choice  coats  of  Tyrian  hue; 
Strange  plates  of  mail  with  shields  of  ormolu; 
Ivory,   perfumes,    voluptuous   luxuries — 
What  e'er  the  lustful  soldiers  cared  to  seize. 

Then  were   the  captives  brought   out   sorrowing. 

Holofernes.   the   royal   chieftain,   said: 

"Those  men   may    live,   to   till    the   soil   for   bread." 

Of  ether  swarms:      "They  shall  much  treasure  bring. 

Lo,  they  shall  fill  the  coffers  full  of  gold 

At  Nineveh;   for  slaves  they  shall  be  sold." 

Of   other   hapless    men   he   thus   decreed: 

"For  public  slaves  in  chains  assign  them  all. 

On  tower,  pyramid  or  castle  wall 

Hard  shall  they  toil,   vile  be  their  daily  feed, 

With  blows  to  make  their  naked  bodies  bleed." 

Of   nobler    youth — strong,   beautiful   and    brave, 

Fie  said:    "I   saw  those  men  grave  dangers  dare. 

Not  one   of  them   be   slain  or   made  a  slave. 

With   us  they   serve   in   arms — O  chiefs,   beware 

Lest  I  consume  in  wrath  as  well  as  spare." 

The  other  youth,  immense  with  their  array, 

He   bade   his   myrmidons    in   fury   slay. 

Then  swept   he   all   rebellious  nations  back, 

And  woe.    fire,   desolation,   fringed   his   track. 

V 

Where    Bethulia  made   its  lone  defence 

Of  Zion's  hills  and  holy  shrines  and  homes — 

With  banners  floating  from  its  castle  domes, 

The  vast   Assyrian  host  removed  its  tents. 

In  stern  magnificence  the  pagans  came. 

So  dense  they  massed  upon  the  mountain's  base, 

Their   multitudes   obscured   the  valley's   face, 

Their  glossy  nu-tal  shone  like  vivid  flame. 


14  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Bethulia's  boldest  men  were  daunted  sore, 
Upon   the   dreadful    scene  in   terror   gazed. 
Samaria's  plain  sent  up  an  ocean  roar; 
To  vision's  reach  Assyrian  armor  blazed. 
Riders,  charioteers,  processions  bright, 
Like  hostile  nations  came  in  sight. 

"Alas!    0  Nineveh  hath  rule  of  earth," 

Brave  men  made  murmur  in  their   great   dismay. 

"Our   petty  force  will  but  awake   her   mirth, 

The  mighty  world  becomes  at  last  her  prey. 

Our  very  land  will  scarce  that  host  contain. 

Its  weight  alone  will  break  these  walls  away; 

It  covers  all  Samaria's  vasty  plain." 

Then  every  man  had  fear  of  heart;  he  stood 

With  weapon  drawn,  upon  Bethulia's  walls 

Till  sunset  lusters  fell   in  rosy  flood, 

And  rayless  eve  threw  down  its  ebon  palls. 

Then  from  the  towers  flamed  red  watch  fires  far, 

For  black  low  heavens  hung — without  a  star. 

When  rolled   Invasion's  wave,  with  murmurs  loud, 
To  view  that  host  a  girl  of  Judah  stood 
Upon  the  walls  in  stately  solitude, 
With  lustrous  eye,  with  courage  unsubdued. 
The  lady  Judith  fair — with  soul  as  proud 
As  Lucifer's  when  angels  fought  on  high 
To  bid  his  baleful,  mad  ambitions  die. 
Par  swept  her  gaze  beneath  her  native  sky. 
All  scenes  she  viewed   the, might  of  Ilus  marred. 
Her  presence  lured  with  ev'ry  wond'rous  charm; 
Her  gen'rous  thoughts — as  pure  as  fleecy  shroud 
That  winter   veils  o'er  high   Tacoma's  form; 
Her  spirit  high,  adventurous  and  warm. 
A  stormy,  haughty  nature  shone  in  eyes 
Aglow  with  force,  impetuo\is  but  wise. 
She  was  no  flower  of  the  lighter  crowd, 
To  twine  a  festal  wreath,  or  toy  with  lyre, 
But  one  of  power,  swift  emotion,   fire — 
Such  dame  as  heroes,  demi-gods,  admire. 
She  wore  the  semblance  of  a  gorgeous  cloud, 
Or  menace — beauty,  of  a  summer  storm 
That  floats  in  splendor  down  an  azure  sky, 
With  rolling  thunder   peal  to  terrify, 
With  hem  of  sunlit  silver,  fringe  of  gold- 
Majestic,  dang'rous  powers  in  its  fold, 
That  blaze   o'er   frighted   skies — to  purify. 
In  thought  absorbed  o'er  hapless  Judah's  woes, 
She  sought  her  home  at  fateful  sunset's  close. 
While  others  bowed  in  silence  of  despair, 
She  poured  her  stormy  soul   in  Passion's  prayer. 


JUDITH  15 

VI 

Oppressive    darkness   o'er   Bethulia  spread. 

Thick   palls   of   starless   eve   depended   round. 

It  stM-nird  a  habitation  of  the  dead, 

Disaster's  home,  Contagion's  revel  ground. 

An  awful   silence  fell,  of  omen  ill. 

Calamity  breathed  all  its  presence  there. 

A  Spirit  moved  upon  a  voiceless  air, 

Men  spoke  in  whispers — only  of  despair. 

All  souls  rebellious  were  of  cooler  will. 

They  fain  had  lifted  up  a  doleful  cry, 

Or  sent  a  frenzied  wail — a  shriek — on   high, 

To  pierce  the  gloomy,  weighty  air  with  sound, 

For   heaven— earth — all    flesh,   became  so  still. 

Twas  inky,  awful  darkness  overhead. 

From  out  a  dreadful  night  came  forth  no  sound 

Save,  ever  and  anon,  the  martial  tread 

Of  some  stern  soldier  on  his  watchful  round; 

With   vague   relief   the  noise   of  watchers   fell. 

It  marred  a  weird,  a  supernatural  spell; 

Men  were  in  fear,  in  superstitious  pain. 

Such  deep,  unearthly  gloom;  the  tension,  strain, 

Intense  alarm — drove   weaker   minds   insane. 

Within  her  lonely  chamber  Judith  mused, 

All  pale  with  mournful  thought — in  silent  woe. 

For  solitude  she  craved;    her  soul  refused 

Vain  human  converse  o'er  such  evils  dire. 

She  saw,   alas!    Judea's  overthrow — 

Beheld  a  wreck  that  must  anon  transpire; 

Her  visions  wild  foretold  what  must  befall — 

The  flames,  the  slaughters,  crimes — she  saw  them  all. 

They  burned  before  her  dizzy  brain  like  fire. 

She  wailed  with  utter  grief;  her  lavish  tears 

Relieved  at  last  an  almost  frantic  mind; 

Her  lofty  spirit  soothed  her  dismal  fears; 

She  calmly  mused  once  more  with  courage  blind. 

O  for  some  power  in  her  woman's  hand! 

Was  there  no  way  to  save  her  native  land? 

A  thought!    She  started — paused — arose  in  haste 

And  hurriedly  the  stately  chamber  paced, 

Then  paused  again,  and  long  was  lost  in  thought. 

She   seemed  a  statue  to  perfection  wrought. 

How  nobly  beautiful  she  was;  her  years 

Were  those  when  Woman  sways  her  utmost  force 

For  good  or  ill;  when  passions  run  their  course 

Defiant  of  all   prudent  rules  or  fears, 

To  crown  a  life  with  happiness  or  tears; 

When   Woman's   lion   will   defies   control — 

And  flashing  eyes  reveal  her  stormy  soul. 

Yet  was  there  greatness  in  her  thoughtful  mien, 

As  there  she  mused — would  grace  a  royal  scene, 


16  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

For   mighty  thoughts   arose  within   her   brain. 
She  stood  like  some  aroused,  imperious  queen. 
No  soft  amour  awoke  her  high  disdain, 
No  tender  words  of  love  fell  from  her  tongue. 
The  fate  of  empires — races — nations,   hung 
Upon  the  subtle  movements  of  her  brain. 

"And  if  I  fail,"  said  she,  "Severe  my  doom — 

Dishonor,   torture,   scarce   a   pariah's  tomb. 

E'en  here  in  Judah  will  Derision  smile, 

Then  speak  of  me,  with  all   suspicions  vile. 

And  if  the  deed  be  done  and  I  shall  die, 

Perchance  this  fearful  storm  will  not  be  by. 

My  blood  will  pour,  but  Zion's  race  will  fall — 

Yea,  more  disastrous  horror  visit  all —  i 

The  very  hills  warp  'neath  a  smoky  sky, 

Because  this  thing  was  e'er  conceived  at  all. 

Grey  matrons  loathe  me  for  their  daughters'  pain. 

Some  living  death  may  wait.     A  gloomy  cell 

May  shut  me  in  from  flow'ry,  sunny  earth, 

From   stars — from   all   the   scenes   I   love  so  well, 

From  joys  of  home  and  happy  hours  of  mirth. 

There  in  some  dismal  hole  I'll  pine  away — 

Grow  haggard,  old,  emaciated,  grey — 

Go  mad!   recalling  of  my  fairer  day. 

How  will  they  kill  me  if  they  wish  my  death? 

In  what  strange,  brutal,  fierce,  barbarian  way, 

So  full  of  pain  that  speedy  death  were  play? 

O  death  becomes  indeed  a  grewsome  thing — 

If  close  we  gaze  upon  it  shuddering. 

Though  now  we  mock  it  with  gay,  merry  breath, 

When  close  we  view  it,  'tis  most  awful  death. 

Yet  men  do  brave  it  on  the  plains  of  strife, 

With  plumes — with  gaudy  colors  all  arrayed, 

And  hail  with  haughty  scorn  a  peaceful  life. 

They  find  a  joy  in  War's  unhappy  trade. 

Shall  not  a  woman's  heart  be  also  bold? 

Her  life  for  lofty  purposes  be  sold? 

O!  'tis  a  fearful  doom  to  die  e'en  here, 

With  gentle  friends  around,  where  all  is  peace; 

Where  passage  to  the  grave  is  but  release, 

Oft  times,  from  countless  cares  that  grow  severe. 

How  shall  I  face  a  death  from  brutal  foes, 

Who  rudely  place  their  hands  on  me  in  hate? 

Who  curse  me  and  insult  with  savage  blows? 

Who  drag — who  push  me,  to  some  dreadful  fate? 

And  life  to  me  now  seems  so  glad,  so  sweet, 

So  full  of  joy — I  fain  would  never  die, 

But  live  alway  beneath  some  sunny  sky 

Where  wars  and  all  these  woes  would  never  meet. 

Why  issues  not  some  fierce,  ambitious  man 


JUDITH  17 

To  foil   the  foe  with   subtle,  crafty  plan? 

Some  chief  with  nuiil  of  brass  and   ruthless  hand, 

Who  does  not  care  for  life,  but  draws  his  brand 

With  joy,  for  fame — for  Glory's  lofty  cheat? 

Why  should  a  woman  arm  to  save  a  land? 

But  no  man  moves!     They  all  do  quail  with  fear, 

And   soon,  alas!   the  brutal  foe  is  here. 

It  is  a  fearful  hazard  for  a  dame  to  take. 

Tis  desperation — worse  than  fate  of  death. 

My  blood  is  cold,  with  nervous  fears  I  shake. 

Mere  contemplation  stays  my  hasty  breath, 

For  I  shall  be  alone  with  savage  foes 

Who  hate  my  race,  delight  in  rueful  scenes. 

In  what  weird  manner  will  the  venture  close? 

I  think  in  vain,  for  darkness  intervenes. 

O  God!    Howe'er  the  dang'rous  die  be  cast, 

On  me  their  vengeance  will  descend  at  last, 

Yet  if  I  here  abide,  'tis  but  to  be 

A  few  more  troublous  days  in  sorrow  free, 

Then   falls    Bethulia — awful    scenes   await. 

Gaze  where  I  will  the  view  is  desolate. 

How  nobler  then  to  die  a  death  of  pride? 

To  give  my  life  to  turn  the  storm  aside. 

Death  comes  to  all,  and  when  at  last  I'm  dead, 

What  matter  if  this  life  was  brief  or  long, 

So  that  a  worthy  praise  of  me  be  said? 

And  of  the  deed?     I  do  no  grievous  wrong 

To  save  the  lives  of  all  my  native  race — 

Preserve  my  country,  home,  my  native  place. 

Ah!    woman  true   abhors,  all   bloody  crime — 

0  hapless  fate  to  see  such  evil  time. 

The  life  of  man  is  brief — I  do  not  take 

A  life,  but  shorten  it  some  restless  years, 

Nor  strike  the  fatal  blow  for  mine  own  sake. 

Judea  shall  not  fall  nor  bathe  in  tears. 

To  slay  a  man  whose  trade  it  is  -to  slay, 

Is  but  to  make  a  vulture  wild  your  prey, 

To  sweep  a  monster  from  your  dang'rous  way. 

But  be  it  good  or  ill,  this  woman's  hand 

Will  deal  a  tigress  blow  for  Judah's  land. 

With  soul  on  fire,  here  now  for  death  I  stand — 

For  worse  than  death — at  will  of  Heaven  high. 

An  inspiration  from  Almighty's  throne, 

Impels  me  forth  amid  that  host  alone, 

And  if  I  fall,  no  precious  one  am  I. 

I'll  save  Judea's  heritage — or  die! 

I'll  save  it  though  I  die.     I'll  dare  this  deed       „ 

Though  Judah  fall  and  all  in  vain  I  bleed. 

All  blows  are  fair  in  such  disastrous  need. 

Soon  shall  defiant  Asshur  wail  in  shame, 

A  proud  blasphemer  fear  his  boastful  creed. 

My  beauty,  honor,  life,  my  woman's  fame — 

2 


18  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

All   that   I  am — I   stake   upon   this  game." 

Thus  flew  her  thoughts — O,  when  the  soul  is  torn 

With  wild  emotions  from  fierce  passions  born, 

Time's  leaden  heel  takes  on  such  nimble  pace 

The  hours  fly  as  in  a  festal  chase. 

How  soon  within  was  rosy  light  of  morn. 

Now  shall  she  prove  her  haughty  spirit  well, 

For  words  no  more  upon  great  issues  tell. 

The  time  for  fears,  reflections,  all  is  past. 

She  stands  on  Action's  fatal  verge  at  last. 

How  calm  she  was — how  stern — how  very  pale. 

Her  beauty  was  a  factor  in  the  game 

Of  death  she  meant  to  play — perchance  of  shame. 

She  needed  not  a  shield,  a  coat  of  mail, 

Nor   arms,  nor  glaives   nor   crest  of  beaten   steel, 

Nor  darts  to  stay  on-rolling  chariot  wheel. 

Her  weapons  were  to  be  the  tender  smile, 

The  flash  of  liquid  eyes,  the  whispered  word, 

The  gentle  touch  of  hand,  the  gracious  wile — 

That  prove  more  potent  than  a  cruel  sword — 

Prepare  more  woe  than  battle  fields  afford. 

Therefore  she  robed  in  raiment  of  a  queen, 

With  costly  gems  to  gild  her  noble  charms. 

O  Eve  of  Glory!   ne'er  had  soldier  seen 

Such  goddess  panoplied  for  war's  alarms. 

In  soft,  celestial  loveliness  she  shone, 

A  spirit  fair  of  some  supernal  zone, 

An  angel  moving  on  a  mortal  scene. 

O'er  temples  pale  a  crowrn  of  gold   she  placed, 

All  ornaments  of  sensuous  deceit 

Her  form  adorned;  all  precious  hues  of  taste, 

With  graven  spans  of  pure  Atlanta  gold, 

Bejeweled   o'er,   upon   imperial   arms. 

She  clad  herself  to  shine  with  all  her  charms — 

To  ravish  eyes  of  all  that  might  behold. 

Soon  solemn  thoughts  o'ercame  her  haughty  air, 
And  low  she  fell  in  tearful  frenzy's  prayer. 

"O  God!"  she  wailed,  "in   this   disastrous  hour, 

See  Thou  how  terrible  is  Asshur's  power. 

His  bloody  onsets  mar  the  world's  repose. 

In  swords  of  warriors  he  places  trust; 

He  strews  the  nations  in  his  battle  dust. 

A  sea  of  tears  for  Asshur's  glory  flows. 

As  olive  leaves,  or  summer  stars  on  high, 

Or  countless  waves  where  vasty  oceans  lie, — 

These  hordes  of  cruel,  superstitious  foes — 

Baal's   haughty   paladins    of    martial  skill, 

Who  love  wild  war — storm  tower,  wall  or  hill; 

Resistless  move  to  force  of  mortal  man. 

Their  host  oppose  no  human  prowess  can. 

Their  glossy  swords  pass  heathen  armor  through, 


j  r  i)  mi  19 

Strange    metals    mold    their    many    weapons    true. 
They  scourge  a  frighted  world  at   savage  will. 

Thou    what    armaments    our    vallies    fill. 
Their  despot    vain   blasphemes   Jehovah's  name. 
Our  city  holy  will  he  wreathe  in  flame, 
All  under  heaven  in  his  rage  he'll  burn, 
Our  temples  wreck,  Thine  altars  overturn, 
Tin-   vales  depopulate  with  bloody  sword. 
His  pride  abase — yea,  sorrow  be  his  dower. 
His   glory  quell — O  strike  Judea's    Lord. 
O'erthrow  Assyria  with  remorseless  power. 
Be  merciless   in    this  momentous   hour. 
With   Heaven's  fury  arm  a  desp'rate  hand, 
So,    when    alone   mid    Il's  great  host   I   stand, 
I  hurl  it  back  o'erwhelmed — at  Thy  command, 
Now  all  our  mighty  men  abandon  hope, 
And  I  go  forth  with  multitudes  to  cope. 
In  woman's  wrath — when  all   the  strong  one's  quail. 
May  not  my  heart  or  holy  purpose  fail. 
Be   Thou   my  guardian   in   tremendous  need, 
That   I  may   do  a  great — an   awful  deed." 

High  courage  in  some  gen'rous,  noble  cause — 

How  beautiful  it  is.     Its  mandate  awes, 

Its  presence  lingers — memory  endears. 

It  lives  in  thoughts  of  men.     The  statue  rears 

In  vain  its  marble  crest  with  peerless  pose — 

In  vain  it  challenges  with  gaze  of  pride, 

If   glorious   human   action  shines  beside; 

In  vain  the  master's  famous  canvas  glows, 

In  vain  the  music  of  magnific  song, 

Where  courage  all  its  frenzied  power  throws 

Into  the  scale,  to  right  some  grievous  wrong. 

Art  has  no  beauty  like  a  deed  sublime, 

Some  action  great  to  charm  all  after  time, 

Some  glorious  deed  that  bids  arch-angels  gaze 

In  admiration,   wonderment  and   praise. 

How  then  a  mighty  soul  o'ercomes  all   fears, 

Controls  each  impulse  with  a  demon's  will, 

Commands  the  trembling  nerves  of  flesh  be  still — 

Ay,    bids   the   spectre    Death    in    homage    kneel, 

Transforms  our  clay  to  adamant  or  steel. 

T  is  honor,  duty  and  a  lofty  cause 

C.ive  high  disdain — supreme  contempt  of  death; 

They  nerve  the  soldier  to  his  dying  breath, 

Inspire  the  deeds  that  win   a   world's  applause. 

When  furied  Woman  lifts  her  gentle  hand — 

In  sheer  despair  the  sword   of  Murder  draws, 

To  smite  a  tyrant  from   her  native   land, 

The  deed   revolts— not   so  her   purpose   grand. 


20  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

VII 

Beneath  a  spacious  dome  of  purple  hue, 
Where  lavish  oriental  splendor  shone — 
Its  woven  gold  begemmed  with  costly  stone, 
Was  Holofernes,   in  gloomy  thought  alone. 
His  lofty  menials  bade  him  deign  to  view 
A   woman  worthy   of  an  Asian   throne. 
This  prince  of  war,  whose  idlest  mood  was  law, 
In  deep  amaze,  celestial  Judith  saw, 
"I  fly  a  land  the  wrathful  gods  have  doomed. 
It  shall  be  given  you  to  be  consumed," 
She  said — then  lowly  fell  in  feigned  awe. 

"Thou  fear  no  more,"  the  grey-haired  soldier  cried, 

"Sweet  rose  of  Salem!    in  our  tents  abide, 

In  honor  dwell — yea,  be  Assyria's  guest. 

No  haughty  one  shall  have  thee  move  aside, 

No  sentry  stay  thee  or  thy  peace  molest, 

For  Babylonia  hath  no  girl  so  fair, 

Nor  brighter  star  glows  o'er  the  rosy  west; 

Thy  features  comely,  beautiful  thy  hair; 

A  home  of  noble  thoughts  thy  pensive  brow. 

Nay,  nay,  mine  adulations  be  confest, 

With  stars  or  gold  thy  semblances  compare, 

And  thou  a  gem  of  all  fair  jewels  found, 

A  purple  cluster  from  Engedi's  ground; 

Like  eyes  of  doves  thine  eyes,  a  lily  thou, 

A  flower  blown — I  feast  upon  thee  now 

To  ravish  all   my   soul   with  pleasure  sweet. 

Sidonian  odors  burn  around  thy  feet, 

Thy  temples  pale  with  richer  gems  be  crowned 

For  safe  thou  art — a   thousand   swords  around! 

No  queen's  espousal  e'er  bestows  a  joy 

On  people's  hearts,  as  vision  of  thy  face 

On  me  confers,  in  midst  of  war's  employ. 

Hail!   sweet  conception  of  Judean  grace, 

No  Lawless  hand  will  here  thy  peace  annoy. 

Voluptuous  thy  ways,  thy  movements,  are; 

Thy  glance  is  clear  as  flash  of  Chellan  star; 

As  ivory  thine  arms,  thy  lips  a  rose. 

O   daughter  of  Jerusalem,  repose. 

On  thee  Judea's  vales  their  languor  shed. 

One  so  delightful  fair — yea,  one  so  wise, 

Should  have  her  home  beneath  serener  skies, 

Where   Nineveh   in  all   its   glory   lies, 

With  royal  scenes  to  greet  her  gentle  eyes, 

With  castle  roofs  above  her  crowned  head." 

O  Beauty!   gift?  alone  of  Heaven's  hand! 
Supreme  enshrined   in   angel  Woman's  form, 
Dark  moods  of  Genius  change  at  thy  command; 
Ferocious  Force  throws  down  his  bloody  brand, 


J  I"  I)  IT  II  21 


hy    wr.mlrous   power   of   thy  charm. 
Tin-  (lemons  grieve,  deo  -ivin.u;  thee  to  harm. 
\\Y   seek   for   thee  among   eternal    stars, 
On  flow'ry  plains,  where  ocean  storms  prevail. 
Xi'iith  nature's  dome  a  pensive  impulse  mars. 
iiow  shall   our  glowing  hymns  to  thee  avail? 
Thou  art    of  haughty  mood,  and  silent  all, 
Nor  heed   pale  worshipers  that  round  thee.  fall, 
Hut    when   we   view  thee    in   sweet    woman's  guise, 
Thou  art  a  joy  divine  to  mortal  eyes. 
High  poets  heap  their  songs,  old  men  their  gold, 
The   swarthy    warrior   his   awful    bays, 
Young  men  the  loyalty  of  all  their  days 
Before  thy  shrine  —  Queen  of  supernal   mold! 

VIII 

So  Judith   dwelt   in   warlike   pomp  alone. 
Assyria's  prince  a  restless   fervor   felt, 
As   though   an   evil   star   above   him   shone. 
Strange  dreams  alarmed;   in  solemn  fear  he  knelt. 
He  deemed  a  menace  came  from  Ormon's  throne. 
Perchance  the  wrath  of  awful  Belus  dealt 
A   blow   through   all   Assyria's   royal   zone. 
Emotions  deep  his  lips  would  fain  disown, 
In  silence  bade  his  lofty  spirit  melt. 
In  manhood's  autumn  prime,   what  use   had   he 
For  what  soft  maidens  or  their  plaintive  swains, 
Or  sighing  vagabonds  of  minstrelsy, 
Define  as  love,  or  sing  in  idle  strains? 
Thus  far  in  life  his  bosom  had  been  free 
Of  all   unhappy   storms   but   those   of  war, 
Of  court  intrigue,  of  vast  diplomacy. 
He  had  his  harem  in  his  home  afar, 
Where  famed  Euphrates  poured  its  yellow  waves; 
His  choice  of  captives  and  of  Grecian  slaves; 
Ferocious  lust  he  knew  the  meaning  of, 
But  till  fair  Judith  came  he  smiled  at  love.. 
Now  burned  his  heart  with  Love's  disastrous  glow; 
Mad  heathen  passions  flamed  like  fires  below, 
And   she  —  his  deadly,    most    remorseless   foe. 
Romantic  vales  walled    in  with   vivid  green, 
Gave  forth  no  echo  of  the  soldier's  tread. 
No  mortal  tumult  marred  the  regal  scene. 
The  gardens  wide  their  heavy  odor  shed, 
Fit  for  the  chamber  of  an  Asian  queen; 
Pomegranate  shades,  wide  pools  of  crystal  spread, 
Cool  brooks  flowed  on  their  mossy  banks  between; 
Hoar,  ancient  hills  —  the  sunlit  heights  o'erhead  — 
Forbade  a  great  world's  roar  to  intervene. 

Forlorn   as   lover   of   ignoble    name, 

He  lonely  wandered  by  these  flow'ry  ways, 


SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

To  dream  of  her,  of  happiness  and  fame. 

"How  vain,"  he  mused;  "is  life — a  few  brief  days!" 

Then  are  we  gone — we  leave  no  worthy  trace. 

Ix>!  Nature's  green,  ambrosial  fane. 

Alone  before  her  stately  shrine  I  stand. 

I  question  with  impetuous  demand, 

I  «eek  to  solve  her  mystery  in  vain. 

Hath  any  part  of  man  a  future  place? 

Earth  is  rude  mother  of  the  human  race. 

The  far,  bright  Sun — O  sacred  zone  of  fire! 

Of  all  that  lives,  moves,  dies — is  our  great  sire, 

But  whence  it  came  in  vain  do  we  inquire. 

All  earth  will  perish  when  its  flames  expire. 

We  call  it  Horus — adorate  its  face. 

Perchance  it  little  heeds  our  puny  race. 

That  fumes,  that  suffers,  in  its  genial  blaze. 

My  brain's  confused — my  thoughts  at  random  chase, 

Nor  strange,  for  even  gods  are  out  of  place. 

'Tis  said  a  star  of  war  blazed  out  last  night 

That  frighted  all  the  sky  with  train  of  fire. 

A  Memphian  seer  who  oft  hath  told  me  right, 

Predicts  a  mighty  man  will  soon  expire. 

Ah,  well!   mayhap  he  deems  departure  light. 

I've  bartered  life,  alas!    for  martial  bays, 

And  oft  I  deeply  mourn  such  fatal  years. 

Ah!    they  have  teemed  with  crimes,  with  nations'  tears, 

With  wars,   revenges,   awful   scenes   of  hate; 

With  dazzling  splendors  of  imperial  state, 

With  surfeit  of  disaster — human  pain. 

I  would  not  see  those  horrors  o'er  again, 

Though  Nimrod's  envied  glories  I  might  reap. 

I  am  not  old  but  this  great  empire's  care 

My  temple  sears;    it  has  imprinted  there 

Displeasing  lines,  and  furrows  all  too  deep, 

A  trembling,  hoary  Magian  seer  might  wear. 

Renowned  of  men,  where  vaunts  a  mortal  foe 

Who  dares  to  meet  me,  hand  to  hand,  in  arms! 

My  soul  delights  in  tumults  and  alarms, 

A  thousand  lords  my  fierce  ambition  show. 

They  loll  in  purple  robes,  attire  in  gold, 

But  fear  the  perils  of  the  martial  field. 

My  royal  spirit  is  of  sterner  mold. 

With  joy  the  regal  sword  in  strife  I  wield. 

When  loud  the  onset  clarions  have  been  pealed, 

Who  dares  to  beard  me  on  the  bloody  field, 

Or  lead,  like  me,  strong  men  through  scenes  of  death? 

I  mark  their  mien  in  Trial's  dreadful  hour — 

I  see  them  battle  in  their  brutal  power; 

Ay,  fight  resolved  unto  their  final  breath. 

Clad  in  mine  armor  of  pure  steel  or  gold, 

With  shiny  crest  adorned  with  snowy  plumes, 

My  tow'ring  form  the  cloud  of  war  illumes; 


jrnrrn  23 

Mine  action  wild,  each  lofty  impulse  bold. 

On  some   Iranian   plain's  extended  floor, 

Sublime  to  see  mine  host  in  combat  pour, 

A  living,  breathing,  shining,  warlike  mass. 

What  nations  in  magnific  order  pass, 

In  grandeur  wild;  sonorous  trumpets  peal; 

On  rush  the  tribes  of  old,  barbaric  fame. 

The  moving  millions  clad  in  sunlit  steel, 

Like  lightning  fill  the  air  with  awful  flame. 

Rich  standards  wave,  shield  or  silver  helmet  shine; 

Impassioned  heroes  cheer  each  dauntless  line; 

Some   chorus   wild   that   scarce  our   tumults   mar, 

Extols  the  glories  of  high  triumphs  o'er; 

On  sweeps  a  swollen  tidal  wave  of  war 

That  startles  Asia  with  portentous  roar. 

The  trappings,  glitter,  of  war's  noble  game 

Delight  mine  eyes;  the  stately  voice  of  Fame 

My  heart  consoles  in  every  gloomy  hour, 

Whence  come  oppressive  clouds  that  round  me  lower? 

Presentiments  of  evil  and  of  shame? 

What  should  a  gray  haired  soldier  now  desire 

But  soft  repose,  return   of  Passion's   fire? 

The  ministrations  of  some  gentle   hand 

Like  her's — this  paragon  of  Judah's  land! 

I'll  sweep  these  hostile  western  lands  with  fire; 

I'll  wreak  upon  them  all  mine  ancient  ire, 

Then  will  I  stay  my  sword  forever  more, 

To  crown  with  happiness  life's  final  hour. 

'Along  Median  hills,  where  foamy  torrents  pour, 

In   pomp   I'll   dwell,   with   Judah's   peerless   flower. 

Soothed  by  her  smiles  I'll  have  at  last  mine  ease; 

Each  soft  infatuation  shall  be  mine. 

I'll  cancel  perils  by  the  foreign  seas, 

Forget  old   wars   in  idleness  and  wine, 

Delight  in  love,  all  happy  arts  employ, 

To  my  great  King  imperial  cares  consign, 

Make  all  around  a  scene  of  peace  divine, 

And  waste  mine  age  in  tranquil  scenes  of  joy." 

O  strange  fatalities  our  lives  control, 
In  this  mysterious  prison  place  of  earth, 
A  smile  may  to  an  endless  woe  give  birth, 
One  soul  has  empire  of  another  soul; 
Lives  fondly  mingle,  to  diverge  again; 
Great  intellect  attains  immense  control 
O'er  lower  millions,  whom  it  ttfts  from  pain, 
Or  basely   burdens   with  oppression's   chain; 
An  impulse  may  sweep  on  a  thousand  years, 
A  word  entail  a  century  of  tears. 
Who   shall   aver   that    he   his  life   controls? 
O  fool,  not  e'en  the  earth  self-driven  rolls. 
As  mortal  mind  o'ercomes  another's  will, 


24  SONGSOF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

An  airy  presence  may  instill  a  thought 

That  bears  tremendous  fruits  of  good  or  ill. 

Upon  a  zephyr  blown,  a  spark  is  caught 

In  idle  tinder  with'ring  on  the   lea, 

To  kindle  blaze  wide  as  the  Tyrrhene  sea. 

The  noiseless  movements  of  a  brooding  mind, 

Awake  a  kindred  mind  to  moody  thought, 

While  Holofernes  o'er  hapless  love  repined, 

Nor  dreamed  that  frightful  dangers  round  him  were, 

But  idly  roved  in  reveries  of  her, 

'Neath  rich  pavilion's  dome  unseen  she  sate, 

And  wove  the  subtle  toils  that  held  his  fate. 

'Twas  thus  she  mused:    "How  vanish  thoughts  of  wrath 

If  kindness  foils;  the  force  my  spirit  hath — 

Its  impulse  bold — abates  in  heavy  fear; 

I  tremble  at  each  idle  tumult  near. 

A  misty  gloom  enveils  a  weary  mind 

Whose  dull  perceptions  grow  to  purpose  blind. 

Confused  are  thoughts  that  late  unrolled  so  clear. 

My  life  is  like  a  black  phantasm  here. 

Ah!    if  but  one  of  them  this  purpose  knew — 

The  thought  o'ercomes  me  with  an  awful  fear. 

In  vain  I  weave  my  fiendish  plan  again; 

It  soon  is  gone  beneath  a  fearful  strain  .' 

That  fills  me  with  keen  agonies  of  pain. 

Unreal  is  each  scene  I  daily  view, 

And  I,  a  passive  instrument,  borne  on 

By  some  stupendous  power  to  goals  I  rue. 

How  vain  to  muse  when  mind  itself  is  gone. 

Where,  where  the  weighty  import  of  this  deed? 

O,  must  a  prince  of  martial  strangers  bleed, 

Who  is  too  lofty  for  ambitions  vile? 

Whose  manly  voice  grows  tender  if  I  smile? 

How  can  his  death  cure  ills  which  have  to  be? 

At  least,  what  wrong  hath  he  imposed  on  me? 

Repulsive  all  my  thoughts  of  murder  seem. 

Am  I  the  plaything  of  some  awful  dream? 

Perchance  controlled  by  some  fierce  demon's  will 

Who  would  my  brain  derange — to  have  me  kill! 

What  if  this  crime  should  prove  a  dread  mistake? 

Will   hosts   of  Asshlir   vanish   for   my   sake? 

Why  shall  I   slay  or  this  great  soldier  fall? 

O  now  I  wake  and  understand  it  all. 

The  act  appals!   I  must  have  bolder  thought; 

For  all  high  reasons  must  the  deed  be  wrought. 

If  blood  must  flow,  no  more  the  trial  wait; 

Soon  be  the  hour  of  this  venture  great." 

IX 

If  he  had  been  for  Zion's  glory  there, 
Such  noble  prince  of  war — such  famous  knight — 


JUDITH  25 

Had  won  swift  admiration  in  her  sight, 

Wh»-ii   eame  he  with   his  adulations  fair. 

H«-  hade  her  shine  beside  his  festal  board, 

As  light  of  soul  as  Ilo's  daughters  were. 

Low  strains  of  pensive  music  should  be  poured, 

Incense  of  ocean  Tyrus   till  the  air, 

Sweet  heathen  girls  o'er  flow  their  gobblets  bright 

"With   precious   wines  from  jars  begemmed  with  stones. 

While   stars   illumed  an  oriental   night, 

The  pomps  be  their's  that  sovrans  on  their  thrones 

Enjoy,  fared  on  the  spoils  of  conquered  zones. 

With  hesitation's  air  at  last  she  smiled, 

Then    gracious    anwer    gave    unto    her    lord. 

High  beat  his  heart,  with  rosy  dreams  beguiled; 

Enrapt  he  mused  on  infamy's  reward. 

Of  subtle  wines  from  Amokostah's  vales 

He  freely  quaffed,  so  blithe  he  was  of  heart. 

She  came  at  eve,  arrayed  with  utmost  art — 

Kind,    beautiful,    soft   as   Arabian    gales. 

He  voiced  his  joy — his  tender  passion's  glee: 

"My  soul  goes  forth,  Judean  girl,  to  thee, 

Whose  lips  are  honey  dew,  and  eyes  are  stars. 

No  evil  cloud  this  hour  of  pleasure  mars. 

What  idle  priest  inveighs  that  dangers  be 

Where  mirth  is  fast,  its  light  emotions  free? 

That  gods  in  envy  gaze  on  mortal  joy — 

Ere  bliss  prevails,  in  vengeful  wrath  destroy? 

That   man  should  sorrow  for  his  many   sins, 

That  never  soul  its  utmost  rapture  wins, 

Nor  ever  is  delight  but  with  alloy? 

Vain  are  the  sermons  of  .these  people  wrise, 

Who  ne'er  have  seen  the  glory  of  thine  eyes. 

Lo!  all  is  tranquil  here — in  midst  of  war. 

Safe  are  we,  love,  as  on  a  lonely  star. 

Howe'er  a  troublous  world  may  find  employ. 

Judean  rose!    our  task  is  only  joy. 

With  olive  wreathe!  let  merry  laughter,  wine, 

Be  sweet  as  those  delicious  lips  of  thine. 

Awake,  O  dulcimer!   O  festal  horn! 

Romanceful  harp — depart  all  moods  forlorn! 

We  wander  now  by  rapture's,  rosy  brink. 

The  wave  is  free — O  let  us  drink — 

Yea,  laugh  derisive  ills  of  life  to  scorn, 

As  though  we  ne'er  should  see  another  morn." 

X 

At  midnight's  hour  the  feast  of  love  was  o'er; 
P>11  wealth  of  roses  o'er  the  pleasure  floor; 
The  fruitage,    purple   grapes,   the   vintage,   lay 
Unheeded  as  the  tears  of  long  ago. 
In  echoes  waned  each  mellow  strain  away, 
The  weary  slaves  withdrew  with  murmur  low, 


26  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

And  he  of  Glory's  toils — Il's  victor  gray, 
Whose  genius  wrought  an  empire's  overthrow — 
On  couch  of  gold,  in  dreamy  trance  he  lay, 
With  wine  o'ercome — alone — to  be  her  prey — 
Chaldea's  prince,  Judea's  mortal  foe— 
A  victim  pale  for  sacrificial  blow. 
The  chiefs  withdrew  before  his  royal  door, 
The  air,  all  earth,  an  awful  silence  wore. 

With  eye  malign  she  stole  beside  his  bed, 

To  view  him   long  with  vacillation's  gaze. 

"A  dark,  a  traitorous  design,"  she  said, 

"What  ending  of  a  mighty  soldier's  days. 

How  soft  he  breathes — mine  flesh  with  horror  creeps, 

Mine  eye-balls  burn,  my  very  sight  is  dim, 

To  see  how  calmly,  peacefully  he  sleeps, 

And  I  so  near  to  deal  such  death  to  him. 

My  blood  is  cold,  a  tremor  chills  each  limb, 

These  hands  of  mine  elude  the  will's  control, 

This  is  a  devil's  work — I  yet  am  clean, 

No  blood  is  on  my  robe  or  on  my  soul. 

What  if  I  fly  this  cursed,  horrid  scene, 

And  leave  to  men  of  war  this  bloody  deed — 

To  butchers  of  our  kind,  whose  only  creed 

Is  brutal  violence  to  win  some  goal? 

I  shudder,  sicken,  at  the  thought  of  this, 

I  would  not  slay  him  for  eternal  bliss. 

O  murd'rous  crime!  Alas,  if  I  decline, 

All  Zion  will  unroll  a  flamy  waste; 

A  cruel  foe  will  spoil  our  holy  shrine; 

The  bitterness  of  death  will  all  men  taste, 

Fair  children  fall  beneath  the  pagan  sword, 

All  women  be  the  prey   of  Asshur's  horde. 

How  earth  will  loathe  me  to  all  final  time, 

A  murderess!   no  heroine  sublime — 

One  who  defiled  herself  by  stealth  to  slay 

The  mightiest  man  of  Asia's  clime, 

As  reptiles  crawl  to  kill  their  nobler  prey. 

O  God!  if  I  had  seen  him  only  now, 

Nor  on  him  gazed  in  simulation's  glee; 

If  he  had  shown  a  rudeness  unto  me, 

Or  on  me  gazed  with  base,  offensive  brow, 

Or  by  an  idle  word  implied  a  scorn, 

'Twere  easier  to  slay  as  I  have  sworn. 

There  was  but  kindness  in  his  revelry, 

List!   of  love  he  speaks — alas!   for  me. 

How  can  I  slay  him  where  in  peace  he  lies? 

O  plan  of  utmost  Hell!      Why  shall  it  be 

When  tenderness  pervades  empyrean  skies? 

Again  he  speaks — my  God!   his  words  appall. 

He   cries — 'Bethulia's   mine!    O   slay   them    all'." 


JUDITH  27 

She  swiftly  moves  to  where  his  falchion  lies 
In  golden  sheath  beside  his  martial  bed. 
With  spiteful  sound   his  trusty  steel   replies. 
As  forth  she  rends  it:   o'er  her  jeweled  head 
An  instant  like  a  shaft  of  death  it  shines. 
Dread  scintillations  clothe  its  gleaming  lines; 
It  falls — it  blushes  deep  with  purple  stains; 
With  tides  drawn  from  her  heathen  lover's  veins, 
Another  frenzied  blow — and  he  is  dead! 
A  headless  corse  on  gore-bespattered  bed. 

Holofernes!    not  by  the  royal  sword 

Of  Madian  prince  or  famous  Memphian  lord 

Art  thou  made  silent  in  dishonor  there; 

Not  by  the  Genii  or  celestial  sons, 

The  children  of  the  gods — impetuous  ones 

Whose  feats  of  prowess  are  brave  men's  despair, 

With  all  thy  noted  wars,  thy  great  command, 

How  hast  thou   fallen   by  a  woman's   hand? 

O'er  northern  hills  thy  peerless  cohorts  came, 

With  cruel  spears,  their  van  a  sea  of  flame. 

Loud  were  thy  brags  the  utmost  lands  to  burn, 

The  fountains  from  primeval  courses  turn, 

With   multitude  of  all   thine  army's   feet. 

No  mortal  foe  would  e'er  thy  power  meet, 

All  earth  would  cower  'neath  a  despot's  rod, 

Adore  a  monster  as  creation's  God, 

Or  mountain  vales  pour  streams  of  human  blood. 

Fair  Judith  smiled — allured  thine  am'rous  eyes — 

Lo!    where  thy  headless  corse  repulsive  lies, 

Thy  dream  adieu  of  sensuous  delight; 

She  flies  to  Judah's  vales  through  shades  of  night. 

XI 

Most  weird,    unheard-of  morn!      An   evil   glare 
Of  ill  portent  stole  o'er  Samaria's  coast. 
Dim  spectral  beams  dazed  Asshur's  fated  host. 
With  blaze  obscure  the  sun  dyed  horrid  air, 
Then  paler  grew,  as  though  his  force  were  lost, 
Fear  smote  each  heathen  breast;   with  whited  lips 
The  pagan  hordes  viewed  Horus  in  eclipse. 
His  anger  tamed  each  vain  blasphemer's  boast. 
With  din  of  arms,   with  battle  trumpet's  blare, 
Bethulia's  braves  aligned  in  phalanx  deep — 
In   massive  squares  along   the  lofty   steep; 
With   stormy   cheers,   as  though  for   open   fight 
Assembling  on  their  native  mountain  height. 
Pale  Judith  paused  upon  a  bannered  wall, 
To  watch  how  soon  her  thunderbolt  would  fall. 

"Assyrians,  align!     We  are  defied! 

In  haste  array!"  the  pagan  heroes  cried, 


28  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

"Holof  ernes,  come   forth!      Fear  not  his  frown — 
Awake  him,  slaves!   The  rebel  knights  come  down." 

High  princes  came  within  his  gorgeous  tent 

With  fear,  lest  he  their  boldness  would  resent. 

Alas — Assassination's  awful  sight! 

His  headless  corse  in  bloody  purple  wound — 

Horrific — loathsome— on  the  gory  ground, 

A  gruesome  trophy  of  the  festal  night. 

They  pierced  the  air  with  wail  of  dismal  sound; 

In  frenzy  flew — precipitation,   fright; 

Afar  they  gave  disastrous  rumors  round. 

O  Ruin's  morn!    strange,  superstitious  fears, 

With  speed  of  thought,  passed  o'er  that  fated  host, 

While   echoed   far   the  foe's   derisive   cheers. 

By  Judith's  blow  Assyria's  might  was  lost. 

Through  miles  of  camps  contagious  terror  spread; 

Tribes  of  renown,  proud  heathen  princes,  fled ; 

In  shame,  confusion,  and  with  haste  insane, 

Assyria's  host  reeled  o'er  Samaria's  plain. 

O'er  Zion's  hills  a  tale  of  triumph  sped, 

Outflying  aromatic  winds  o'er  head. 

No  more  despair  a  gloomy  land  o'er  cast, 

Each  mountain  vale  fast  woke  with  rally  blast; 

Each  vineyard,  olive  grove,  gave  forth  its  band 

Of  swordsmen  to  consume  a  ruined  foe. 

Phoenicia  warred;    every  border  land 

With  rapture  hailed  Assyria's  overthrow— 

O'er  whelmed   its  fugitives   with  cruel  hand. 

Of  all  those  fearless  clans  who  came  in  wrath — 

In    savage   pomp — on   Glory's    crimson    path, 

To  scourge  a  world  with  wild  invasion's  woes — 

The  flower  of  all  Asia's  martial  brood; 

At  home  in  strife  and  restless  of  repose; 

In  warfare,  scornful  of  intrepid  foes, 

Whose  trail   was  desolation,   solitude — 

A  remnant  vain,  in  courts  of  royal  pride, 

Confessed  with  shame  where  famous  armies  died. 

A  thrill  of  joy  passed  o'er  the  Tyrian  sea; 

The  shdres,  the  waves,  the  frighted  earth  were  free. 

In  palmy  Nineveh  strange   scenes   prevailed, 
Fear  filled  ancestral  halls,  imperial  seats, 
Pale  seers  of  Bel,  who  breathed  of  Heaven's  ire, 
In  frenzy  drove  their  slaves  of  Sacred  Fire. 
Fierce  armed  swarms  the  palace  wall  assailed, 
The  troops,  inflamed  o'er  infamous  defeats, 
The  concourse  joined,  or   at  its  fury  quailed. 
The  tyrant  mused  in  gloomy  pomp  alone, 
His    cohorts   fell,    his   revel    heroes   fled, 
Sun-worship  clans  poured  o'er  the  portals  red — 
They  slew  Assyria's  monster  on  his  throne. 


jrnrni 

Three  thousand  years  have  passed — how  fair  the  name 

Of  Judith  still   in   tragic  lustre  shines, — 

In  fadeless  glory    -o'er  the  stars  of  fame 

That  cadi  receding  age  to  earth  resigns. 

No  mist   obscures  the   martial  bays  she  won 

Because  her  beauty  served  most  high  designs. 

Ferocious  was  the  foe  she  strove  to  bar, 

And  all  was  fair  in  ruthless  Asian  war. 

O  star  Semiramis!   how  pale  thy  rays 

When  orb  of  Judith  burns  with  meteor  blaze. 

In   vast  results,  imperial  hosts  undone, 

She  dims  the  laurels  gods  of  war  have  won. 

From    Nubia's  wave  to  shores  of  Parthian  sea, 

Her  valiant  arm  set  countless  nations  free. 


30  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

IN  OUSTER'S  HONOR 

PRIORITY  OF  PUBLICATION 

In  1893,  to  a  leading  Chicago  firm,  I  submitted  a  manu- 
script of  poems  wherein  was  contained  this  one  "In  Custer's 
Honor."  Afterwards,  (1896),  that  firm  issued  "Custer  And 
Other  Poems,  by  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox."  Her  Custer  poem 
was  similar  to  mine  in  methods,  ideas,  sentiment,  length, 
meter  and  style  of  versification,  and  to  the  ordinary  reader 
it  would  appear  very  much  as  though  one  poem  suggested 
the  other.  The  author  who  printed  last  would,  of  course, 
be  viewed  as  an  imitator. 

Unknown  to  these  publishers,  I  had  printed  my  poem  on 
General  Custer  many  years  previously,  in  the  San  Francisco 
"Chronicle." 

To  any  charge  of  imitating  Mrs.  Wilcox,  I  offer  the  defense 
of  priority  of  publication. 


IN  CUSTER'S  HONOR 

Honor  the   Brave. — Napoleon 

Shall  warlike  songs  no  more  be  sung, 

Though  humblest  hands  must  seize  the  lyre? 

Shall  Fame  forget  her  trumpet  tongue, 

And  Glory  quench  her  sacred  fire? 

Shall  deeds  of  arms  no  more  inspire, 

Nor' martial  themes  adorn  the  lay 

That  woke  applause  in  Homer's  day? 

Alas!   the  times  are  basely  cold. 

Unlike  the  brilliant  race  of  old, 

Men  worship  at  ignoble  shrines; 

To  venal  hordes  the  bard   resigns 

With  silent  lips  his  regal  task — 

No  martial  strains  the  nations  ask, 

No  victors  now  in  splendor  bask 

On  thrones  that  kings  in  envy  prize; 

No  thrilling   plaudits    pierce   the   skies 

When  signal  notes  to  conflict  call; 

The  laurel  wreath  men  now  despise, 

The  gloom  of  greed  o'ershadows  all; 

Across  the  path  where  conquest  lies 

Grim  Avarice  uplifts  its  wall, 

Yet  shall  one  voice  defiant  rise 

To  celebrate  a  soldier's  fall. 

Custer   the   brave!    Star  of  the  West — 
If  martial  souls  can  likened  be 


I  \    OUSTER'S    HONOR  31 


To  peerless  stars   in  heaven's  crest 

That    flash   and   glow    in    grand    unrest 

When    Night    conies   down  on  earth  and  sea- 

O  gallant  one,  how  few  like  thee 

Have  leapt  to  fame  in  this  dull  age; 

How  few  illumed  rich  Honor's  page 

With  annals  of  so  proud  a  chase; 

How  few  have  run  such  high  career 

In  Glory's  bright  and   dazzling  race, 

Or  fleetly  won  such  lofty  place, 

O  knight  without  reproach  or  fear! 

Thy  fields  are  fought,  thy  triumphs  o'er; 
Xo  more  the  thunders  of  the  strife 
Will  wake  thy  soul  to  keener  life; 
Xo  more  the  volleys  hotly  pour 
Along  the  ranks  where  swiftly  speed 
Thy  daring  form  and  haughty  steed. 
The  white  smoke  of  the  massive  guns 
Will  rise  no  more  to  southern  suns 
Where  voice  of  thine  breaks  on  the  air, 
Or  war  winds  kiss  thy  trailing  hair. 
Xo  more  thy  sword  will  gleam  and  shine 
In  midst  of  square,  in  front  of  line, 
Xor  thy  proud  lips,  with  fierce  delight, 
Proclaim  commands  in  moments  dire 
Whereat   the  battle's   waning   fire 
Will  glow  anew  with  redder  might, 
Xor  thy   dread  skill,   like   Heaven's  blight, 
O'erwhelm  the  foe  that  scorns  to  yield, 
Or   hurl    mad   columns  on   his   flight 
When  triumph  shakes  the  smoky  field. 

The  glory  of  those  scenes  is  past, 

The  terror  and  the  dread  import ; 

Xo  death  wail  floats  upon  the  blast, 

Xo  standards  toss  o'er  field  and  fort; 

Xo  gloomy   fleets  with  iron   walls 

Move  up  the  quiet,  inland  streams; 

Xo  hissing  bolt  of  carnage  falls 

To  rouse  the  soldier  from  his  dreams; 

Xo  bugle  through  the  green  wood  calls, 

Or  missile  o'er  the  rampart  screams. 

At  twilight,  dusk  or  break  of  day 

Xo  hosts  in  silence  form  array, 

Or  in  the  pomp  of  martial  pride 

Pour  fearless  from  the  mountain  side, 

At   noon's   dread    hour,    in    wrath   condign, 

To  break  the  foe's  unconquered  line; 

Xo  white  camps  deck  the  crested  hills, 

Xo  music  breaks  across  the  plain; 

Xo  startling  deed  the  spirit  thrills 


3.2  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

With  exultation  or  with  pain; 

Nor  lurid  flames  the  night  illume, 

Nor  horrors  shame   the   ghastly  day, 

Nor  lands  adorned  with  Summer's  bloom 

Are  smote  with  slaughter  and  dismay, 

But  Peace  smiles  down  from  shore  to  shore — 

And  Custer  rides  to  death  no  more! 

His  lion  heart  is  quiet  now, 
His  fierce  blue  eyes  are  cold  and  dim; 
Though  laurels  twine  his  noble  brow 
The  voice  of  Fame  is  not  for  him. 
The   form  that   ball    and   piercing  blade 
So  long  in  vain  assayed  to  mar, 
Beneath  the  peaceful  turf  is  laid, 
To  lead  no  more  the  storms  of  war. 
The  shock  of  arms,  the  earthquake  tread 
Of  countless  hosts,  the  peal  of  strife, 
Might  roar  above  his  lowly  head 
Nor  thrill  the  hero  back  to  life. 
And  where  he  sleeps  shall  softer  notes 
Waft  gentler  echoes  to  the  gale, 
For  there  no  lordly  challenge  floats, 
No  cymbals  clash,"  no  foes  assail; 
No  cannon  from  their  iron  throats 
Hurl  forth  their  clouds  of  burning  hail, 
But  tranquil  skies  and  peace  are  there, 
And  woman's  voice  is  heard  in  prayer, 
Or  pours  in  song  with  saddened  strain, 
Low  music  o'er  the  mighty  slain. 

'Tis  meet  that  he  should  slumber  so, 
Whose  princely  spirit  never  quailed 
When  forward  poured  the  threat'ning  foe, 
But  when  the  courtly  truce  prevailed, 
By  deed  and  mien  and  gracious  word 
He  fleetly  found  a  surer  way 
To  foemen's  hearts  than  swiftest  sword 
Could  find  in  vortex  of  affray. 

His  knightly  blade  forever  sheath, 

His  useless  arms  no  more  display; 

Hang  on  the  wall  his  withered  wreath, 

And  wheel  the  silent  guns  away. 

The  silken  banner  that  the  rain 

Has  deeply  dashed  with  streak  and  stain, 

That  suns  have  marred  and  fire  has  singed, 

That  balls  have  pierced  and  blood  has  tinged, 

That  holy   tears  hafe  sanctified, 

Fold  thou  away  with  mournful  pride. 

Its  dainty  fringe  of  yellow  gold 

Has  rustled  where  War's  surges  rolled; 


IN    OUSTER'S    HONOR  33 

Its  slender  staff  with  brazen   spear, 

With   splintered  sides  and   silver   scroll, 

Has    marked    where    brave  men    trod   with   fear, 

Or  heroes  rushed  with  thundering  cheer 

To  win  the  conflict's  bloody  goal. 

i 

These  are  the  spoils  proud  nations  prize — 
Not   massive  heaps  of  yellow  gold 
That  slaves   may   dig  or  cravens   mold, 
Or  knaves  amass  from  human  sighs; 
These  are  the  trophies  dearer  far 
Than  conquests  of  colossal  war. 
For  these  no  fawning  thief  will  bend 
To  barter  country,  race  or  friend; 
There  is  no  precious  thing  in  these 
To  tempt  the  greed  of  soulless  men; 
The  wind  that  sweeps  the  western  seas, 
Whereon  a  thousand  fleets  have  been, 
Hath  never  wafted  merchant  bark 
To  distant  shores  with  freight  like  this. 
The  hellish  purpose,  deep  and  dark; 
Foul  treachery,  the  Judas  kiss, 
The   blasting   lie,    the   base   design, 
Are  not  for  spoils   of  Glory's   shrine. 
Lo!   Mammon's  slaves  will  mock  and  sneer, 
And  hold  such  relics  vilely  cheap, 
But  find  the  land  where  Beauty's  tear 
Dews  not  the  turf  where  soldiers  sleep; 
Where  gold  outweighs  the  gallant  heart, 
And  tinsel  pomp  outshines  the  bays 
The  hero  wins  on  battle  days 
When  Duty  points  his  dreadful  part; 
And   find  the   land  where  rusts   the  sword 
That  all  untrammelled  Greed  may  reign; 
Where  navies  rot  that  rogues  may  hoard, 
And  rulers  covet  thrones  for  gain; 
Where   ill-got  wealth  with  vulgar  scorn 
Derides  the  poet,  sage  and  chief; 
Where  spotless  bays  are  rudely  torn 
From  honored  brows  that  Daphne's  leaf 
May  basely  crown  some  swollen  thief — 
For  that  vile  land  what  dastard1  craves? 
It  is  the  future  home  of  slaves! 


Shall  scenes  of  warfare  never  cease 
In  stormy  forum — on  the  field 
Where  Glory's  lofty  note  is  pealed? 
Man  was  not  born  for  scenes  of  peace. 
All  sacred  is  the  martial  zeal 
That  bares  the  soldier's  glossy  steel — 
Impels  him  on,  with  heart  aflame, 
In  reckless  quest  of  mortal  fame. 
3 


34  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Who  turns  the  sword  into  a  plow, 

May  till  the  soil  with  gloomy  brow, 

And  fare  him  like  his  brother  beast, 

That  idle  men  of  arms  may  feast. 

Whate'er  we  gain  we  combat  for, 

As  well  we  guard  whate'er  we  keep. 

The  tyrant  comes  when   freemen  sleep, 

And  spoilers  prey  'neath  sun  or  star. 

Our  mother,  Nature,  teaches  war; 

She  spurs  us  on,  but  o'er  the  mind 

Let  Reason  pour  its  vivid  light. 

True   sons  of  Glory  ever  fight 

For  some  great  welfare  of  mankind; 

For  lofty  purpose,  race  oppressed, 

For  cause  by  after  ages  blessed, 

And  leave  immortal   names  behind. 

Though  armed  Wrong  uprears  his  crest, 

Shall  earth  and  all  it  holds  be  his? 

In  any  clime,  in  any  land, 

The  sword  an  honest  weapon  is, 

If  seized  by  patriotic  hand. 

Ill  fares  Oppression  with  its  horde 

Of   pampered   slaves,   its   vaunted   sway, 

Where  freemen  wear  the  ready  sword, 

And  have  the  spirit  of  affray. 

Heroes  of  old  will  fade  away 

From  Grandeur's  pile  or  list  of  Fame, 

And  he  alone  who  boldly  fights 

In   Freedom's  van,  for  human  rights, 

Will   have   Humanity's  acclaim. 

Yea,  laurels   fall   from   Heaven's  height 

To  crown  the  soldier  of  the  Right. 

True  heroes  hold   in  sacred  awe 

The  mandates  of  their  country's  law, 

But  spurn  a  brutal  despot's  whim, 

Nor  count  the  cost  that  baffles  him. 

Advance — O  Human  Race — advance! 

E'en  though  at  times  through  storms  of  war. 

No  more  may  Freedom,  Glory,   Chance, 

Be  chained  to  Crime's  triumphal  car. 


ON   PRAIRIES   WILD  35 

ON    I'RAIRIKS   WILD 
PRELUDE 

O  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness. — Cowper. 

Woo  unto  you,  scribes  and  Pharisees,  hypocrites!  Blind 
guides  which  strain  at  a  gnat  and  swallow  a  camel!  Ye 
outwardly  appear  righteous  unto  men,  but  within  are  full  of 
hyprocrisy  and  iniquity.  Ye  serpents!  Ye  generation  of 
vipers!  How  can  ye  escape  damnation  of  Hell?  Ye  are  like 
unto  whited  sepulchres,  which  appear  indeed  beautiful  with 
out,  but  within  are  full  of  rottenness  and  dead  men's  bones. — 
Jr  fiiis  Clirist. 

Money,  money,  money!  makes  the  man. — Pindar  (2500 
years  ago). 

If  ye  say  ye  love  God,  whom  ye  have  not  seen,  and  hate 
and  oppress  your  brother,  whom  ye  have  seen,  ye  are  liars 
and  the  truth  is  not  in  you. — Christ. 

"Oriental  servility  superseded  pride;  public  spirit  dis- 
appeared, patrotism  was  gone;  literature  lost  its  vigor;  art 
deteriorated,  money  ruled;  the  people  sunk  into  a  nation  of 
pedants,  parasites  and  slaves." — Decline  of  Greece. 


OX   PRAIRIES  WILD 


This  is  the  story  of  Glendare, 

Who  lived  upon  a  former  day. 

He  was  not  born  to  fortunes  fair, 

But  early  clouds  fell  o'er  his  way. 

He  had  some  foes  who  wrought  him  ill — 

They  ruined  him  with  crafty  hand. 

He  had  no  skill  of  self  command, 

He  had  no  rule  but  wild  self  will. 

He  thought  intense,  and  had  strange  moods 

That  led  him  off  to  solitudes 

Where  he  met  friends  men  do  not  see. 

They  told  him  things  that  were  to  be, 

And  things  that  yet  will  come  to  pass; 

They  taught  him  arts  of  mystery. 

They  loved  him  well,  but  they,  alas! 

Could  give  to  him  no  thing  he  craved. 

His  mortal   life   was   all   enslaved, 

For  powers  of  ill  more  strong  than  they 

Pursued   him  with  relentless  hate, 

And  he  would  not  their  will  obey, 

Or   changed   his  mood   when   all    too   late. 

He  trod  the  path  of  his  own  fate, 

Since  all  his  sorrows  were  to  be. 


36  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

I  caught  his  life  in  rifts  of  dreams; 
In  voices,  thoughts,  that  came  to  me. 
All  disconnected  now  it  seems, 
Phantasmagoria,    fitful    gleams, 
But  in  it  all  was  truth  for  me. 

II 

Where'er  he  turned  he  saw  deceit 
Concealed   in   smiles  to  soon  betray, 
And  Shame  he  found  in  Honor's  seat, 
And  Vice  in  Virtue's  chaste  array. 
He  found  Religion  oft  a  veil 
To   screen   the  vile   from   utter   scorn — 
A  gilded  sham,  of  Mammon  born, 
To  plunder  on  colossal  scale, 
And  sway   mankind   like  serfs  forlorn. 
He  found  that  Falsehood   reigned   supreme; 
That  justice   was   a  poet's  dream 
That  faded,  fast  to  empty  air 
Beneath  Corruption's  gorgon  glare; 
And  where   Integrity   should   wait, 
Rank  thieves  he  found   installed  in  state. 
He  could  not  bow  at  Power's  call, 
Or  kneel  where  Manhood  bade  him  stand; 
He  could  not  cringe  and  delve  and  crawl 
For  senseless  gold  from  Favor's  hand; 
And  yet  he  found  that  swollen  wealth 
Could  win  what  Genius  may  not  gain; 
That  bays  were  snatched  by  coward  Stealth 
Where  manly  Force  would  strive  in  vain. 
He  saw   Pretension   seize  the   place 
That  sterling  Merit  scarce  could  hold, 
And  saw  the  world  join  in  a  chase — 
A  frantic  chase — for  only  gold. 
And  Gold,  he  saw,  ruled  over  all, 
Bought  men  as  dealers  buy  their  slaves; 
Prepared  the  way  for  Beauty's  fall, 
Or  cheated  prisons  of  their  knaves; 
Atoned   for   any  crime  or  blot, 
Made  right  whatever  once  was  wrrong; 
Set  Law — yea,  Decency  at  naught, 
And  made  the  hoary  lecher  strong. 
And  social   lines  he  fiercely  found 
Set  everywhere  some  hated  bound 
To  beat  him  back;   there  was  no  round 
That  he  might  tread  that  did  not  lead 
To   insult,    slander,   hate  and   greed. 
That  he  was  base  they  could  not  plead; 
That  he  had  robbed,  or  that  his  creed 
Conflicted  with  the  Law's  command; 
That  he  had  raised  a  lustful  hand 
At   Innocence  in  hour   of  need, 


ON     PRAIRIKS    WILD  37 

Or  that    \\Yakm-ss  had   within  his  snare 

Been  stricken  down  to  perish  there, 

And   he  had  smiled  to  see  it  bleed — 

Til  at    he   had   wrought    some    murder   grim. 

They  could  not  say  these  things  of  him. 

His  crime  was  worse  a  thousand  fold — 

He  had  no  hoarded  heaps  of  gold. 

His  vengeful  soul  in  hate  rebelled, 

And  bitter  as  a  cynic  gray 

He  cursed  a  social  world  that  held 

Such   hypocrites  and  beasts  of  prey. 

Ill 

On  o'er  wastes  untamed  and  dread 
His  lone  and  silent  marches  led; 
Wide  stretched  the  plains,  untouched  by  Man, 
Where  still   and   solemn   rivers   ran; 
Green  rose  the  woods  beneath  a  sky 
That  heard   no  sounds,  and  far   and  nigh 
Within   the   vast    horizon's  belt 
A  world  outspread,  wherein  there  dwelt 
No  throne   of  power  to  set  aright 
The  ruthless  wrongs  imposed  by  Might, 
Or  wreaked  by  Hate  or  wrought  by  Lust; 
No  safeguard  that  the  weak  might  trust, 
No  lofty   court   of  last   appeal; 
No  law  save  that  the  rudest  feel 
Within  their  hearts;    naught  to  oppose 
Marauder's  craft  or  ruffian's  blows — 
Only  Nature's  grand   repose. 
And  if  uncertain  skies  were  black, 
And  launched  the  cyclone  on  his  track, 
He  ever  loved  roused   Nature's  rage. 
He  read,  as  from  a  written  page, 
The  signs  she  wrote  on  mountains  hoar, 
On  angry  skies,  on  seas  in  pain, 
On  rushing  stream  or  beaten  shore, 
On  angry  skies,  on  seas  in  plain, 
Where'er  she  wrote  he  loved  to  read; 
And   if  her  tameless    instincts  chose 
The  rending  whirlwind  for  a  steed, 
And  sin-stained   cities  for  her  foes, 
He  darkly   feigned   he  saw  no  cause 
To  pity  where  such  chaos  dwelt; 
Incensed  at  rules,   restraints  and  laws. 
At  Nature's  shrine  alone  he  knelt, 
And    had    some   horror    menaced    Earth, 
Some  scourge  to  sweep  from  land  to  land, 
Could  he  have  stayed  it  at  its  birth, 
He   had    leapt    forth    with   saving  hand, 
But  deemed  the  deed  of  little  worth. 
Condemn  such   spirit  if  ye  will — 


38  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

The  world's  rude  lessons  teach  it  still, 
And  pride  and   bitterness   combined, 
Confuse  and  warp  the  noblest  mind. 
Where  flowers  bloom  the  serpent  hides. 
And  kindness  oft  with  ill  abides. 
We  hide  our  wounds  as  best  we  can — 
We  cannot  hate  our  brother  man. 

IV 

The  deep  woods  heard  his  axe's  stroke, 
His  own  strong  arms  laid  low  the  oak; 
He  shaped  the  logs,  he  cleared  the  spot, 
He  reared   alone   his   ample   cot. 
He  broke  the  sod,  with  easy  speed 
He  scattered  wide  the  yellow  seed; 
He  covered  well — his  task  was  done, 
He  left  the  rest  to  rain  and  sun; 
For  further  toil  there  was  no  need. 

How  happy  seems  a  woodland  sage 
Who  dwells  content  in  humble  cot, 
And  drifts  from  youth  to  tranquil  age, 
Nor  ever  pines  for  grander  lot. 
No  hopes  insane  or  mad   demands 
Disturb   his  brain,  impel   his  hands. 
He  little  heeds  the  time  that  flies. 
He  is  no  serf  his  toil  to  waste. 
From  morning  red  to  ev'ning  chaste 
Subservient    to   Wealth's    decree. 
There  is  no  king  more  truly  free, 
More  safe   from  tyranny  than  he. 
What  petty  lord  has  him  arise 
Ere  dawn  illumes  unfriendly  skies, 
To  drudge  in  pain  that  knaves  may  feast, 
May  have  their  pageantry  increased, 
Or  bask  in  dissipation's  blaze 
Through  noisy  nights  and  idle  days, 
Or  flaunt  their  robes  from  hall  to  den 
Before  the  eyes  of  better  men? 
And  where  the  lips  that  dare  command? 
Or  dare,  with  insolence  of  speech, 
Tyrannic  sophistries  to  preach, 
Within  the  aisles  so  broad  and  grand 
That  gird  his  home  with  boundless  reach, 
Green  canopied  by  Nature's  hand? 
Why  should  he  slave?     The  land,  the  air, 
The  woods,  the  game,   are  Heaven's  care. 
The  teeming  fruits,  the  waters  clear, 
That  shine  and  gJisten  far  and  near, 
Are  free  for  him  to  take  or  spare. 
The  blue  smoke  curls  above  his  roof, 
His  lounging  dogs  keep  vigils  true; 


ON    P  R  A  I  R  I  K  S    W  I  L  D  39 

The  savage  beasts  prowl  far  aloof, 
Or  frightened  fly  his  wild  halloo; 
The  flowers  bloom  for  him  to  view; 
The  grasses  spring  to  bear  his  tread, 
Or  catch  the  tinsels  of  the  dew; 
The  bird  that  carols  sweet  o'er  head 
His  very  step  and  presence  knows. 
He  fears  no  plots  of  baffled  foes; 
His  days  are  pleasure  and  repose. 
At  truce  with  Fate  and  free  of  care, 
Thus   idly  mused  morose  Glendare. 


On  Indian  steed   that  bore  him   well 

He  slowly  rode  o'er  Prairie  Land. 

From   sapphire  skies   the    sunlight   fell, 

The  summer  atmosphere  was  bland; 

Full  breezes  cooled  the  sultry  air; 

They  roved  o'er  desert  gardens  fair, 

They  scattered  odors  everywhere; 

They  ceaseless  roved;  the  tall  green  grass — 

It  moved  and  ruffled  like  a  sea. 

He  watched  the  restless  breezes  pass; 

All  round,  the  world  was  fair,  was  free 

As   these   light  winds   that   came   and   went 

As  though  on  task  of  joyance  bent. 

Wild  flowers  waved  of  every  hue 

From  snowy  white  to  livid  flame. 

What  if  he  knew  them  not  by  name? 

White  or  golden,  purple,  red, 

Each  flower  tossed  its  haughty  head, 

And  if  they  bloomed  and  bloomed  anew 

On  lonely  heath,  in  hidden  dell, 

Then  faded  and  all  withered  fell 

Ere  human  eye  could  idly  view, 

In  loveliness  they  bloomed  the  same; 

They  gemmed  the  boundless  desert  lea, 

And  fed  the  wand'ring  honey  bee. 

Elysian  skies  smiled  overhead; 
Unbounded    plains    in    silence    spread, 
To  silence  and  to  peace  consigned. 
Silence   is  the  womb  of  thought; 
The  home,  the  garden  of  the   mind. 
The  spirit  of  the  scene  he  caught, 
And  slowly  rode  from  spot  to  spot. 
The  cry  of  wolf,  the  note  of  bird, 
The  sigh  of  grasses  gently  stirred 
By  balmy  breath  of  soft  south  wind 
From  torrid  seas,  alone  was  heard. 
Without   a   sound  to  wake  or   warn, 
In  solitude  great  thoughts  are  born. 


40  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

As    sunset   nears,   rich   colors   glow; 
The  landscape  dons  a  thousand  dyes; 
Vermilion  robes  the  western  skies, 
Rich  purples  veil  the  hills  below. 
Tints  change  and  mingle,  flash  and  go; 
Bright  opals  fuse  and  crimsons  flame, 
Till  in  its  pomp  recedes  the   Sun, 
And  slowly  brilliant  Eve  moves  on. 

In  Midnight's  proud  cathedral, 
Domed  by  the  stars  divine, 
He  paid  his  homage  humble 
At  Nature's  mighty  shrine. 

VI 

In  Autumn's  gorgeous,  golden  clime 

All  unsurpassed  was  Prairie  Land — 

A  wonder  traced  by  Nature's  hand, 

Replete   with   color.     Scene   sublime! 

How  still  the  drowsy  waste  around; 

How  sacred  to  eternal  rest. 

In  all  the  world  there  was  no  sound. 

The  sun  rays  fell  from  Heaven's  crest, 

They  sunk  on  Nature's  silent  breast, 

And  Beauty  waved  her  magic  wand. 

Where  slender  rivers  stole  their  way 

Through  gleaming  heaps  of  desert  sand — 

Their   sinuous  way  like  streams   estray — 

Tremendous   bluffs    of   primal    rock, 

High  flung  by  subterranean  shock, 

Were  crowned  with  woods  in  florid  dyes; 

In  gaudy  colors  unexcelled, 

That  dazzled,  ravished  mortal  eyes. 

No  human  hand   hath   ever   held 

A  cunning  brush  to  paint  like  this. 

Vain  thy  skill,  presumptuous  Man. 

Behold!    and   rival   if   you   can. 

The  landscape  swoons  at  Nature's  kiss. 

It  seems  a  home  of  placid  bliss 

For  nymphs  and  gods  of  days  of  Eld. 

Where  slow  the  stream  the  quick-sand  laves, 
'Mong  cliffs  and  crags,  in  secret  caves, 
Hide  outlaws  rude  or  Indian  braves. 

Majestic  Nature  sits  in  calm — 

For  weary  minds  has  blessed  balm, 

Yet  here  the  cyclone  wheels  its  course, 

The  whirlwind  wields  its  awful  force. 

Yon  stream  that  shuns  its  doubtful  shores, 

At  times  a  swollen  river  pours; 

A  flood  gigantic,  furious,  wild, 


ON     1»RA  I  K  1  I.  S    \V  I  1,1)  41 

Its   wall   of  waves   on    upland   piled; 
The  eloud-burst   falls  with  sudden  might 
And    fills   the  vale  with  surges  white. 
Like    passions   of  the   human   race, 
The   elements    this   holy   place 
Do  mar,  and  every  scene   debase. 

Vast  prairie  fires  fiercely  range 
The  region  o'er,  fanned  by  the  gale, 
And  all  its  flowery  fronts  assail, 
And  all  its  vernal  beauties  change. 
Wild  creatures  fly  or  fall  in  flame; 
The  hunter  flies  or  falls  the  same. 
Then  smoke  and  cinders,  blackened  heath, 
Are  all  that  lie  the  heavens  beneath. 
Where   Beauty,  Goodness,  love  to  stray 
There  Evil  comes  in  quest  of  prey. 
'Twas  ever   thus   since  Eden's  day — 
The  fate  of  earth  and  mortal  clay. 
Great  power  tends  to  deeds  of  wrong; 
The  brave  must  meet  and  fight  the  strong. 
With  good  and  ill  all  things  are  rife. 
How  Passion  clouds  the  noblest  brain, 
And  blights  and  stains  the  proudest  life. 
Self  indulgence  and  excitements  vain 
Swift  bring  destruction  in  their  train. 
Vice  gives  the  strong  man  overthrow. 
The  haughty,  bohi,  audacious  man 
Contrives  in  vain  his  daring  plan. 
Vice  breaks   his   force   and   lays  him  low. 
The  prairie  fire,  the  sheen  -of  joy 
That    overhangs   the   path   of   vice, 
But  shine  to  ravage  and  destroy — 
The  foes  of  welfare  and  of  life. 

Indian  Summer!      Glorious  moon! 

And  all  the  stars,  how  wondrous  bright — 

Glittering  orbs  of  splendid   Night! 

The  air  is  warm  as   northern  June; 

As  pure,  as  clear,  as  dry  and  light 

As  fills  a  sultry  afternoon 

Where  lotus-eaters  lounge  at  ease 

Divorced  from  thoughts  that  do  not  please — 

From   olden  griefs  and  memories — 

On  fabled  isles  of  southern  seas. 

VII 

It  soothed  Glendare  to  idly  gaze 
At  mid  of  night,  at  noon's  high  blaze. 
In  glens,   in  mighty  solitudes, 
He  revelled  in  poetic  moods; 
I5y  surging  flood  or  dwindling  brook, 
He  read  the   lore   of  Nature's  Book; 


42  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

He  sought  it  in  Night's  radiant  skies, 

But  mocking  stars  gave  no  replies. 

In  thought  and  meditations  long 

He  pondered  Story's  page  of  wrong — 

Recital  of  the  reign  of  brutes 

That  strutted  earth  in  human  form, 

And  wrought  their  lusts  and  had  their  will 

Till  vengeance  bore  its  bitter  fruits, 

And   Horror   had   its   bloody   fill. 

The  earth  was  but  a  robber's  den. 

He  pitied  all  his  fellow  men. 

He  saw  the  triumph  of  the  strong; 

With   hate,   with   scorn,   with   impulse   warm, 

He  saw  that  Right  too  often  fell 

At   stroke   of   Power's   brutal   arm — 

That  lands  became  a  smoky  Hell 

That  sword  and  crown  and  mitre  grim 

Might  league  for  gold,  and  iron  sway; 

In  Christ's  high  name  might  burn  and  slay. 

What  monstrous  crimes  are  laid  to  Him! 

Greed,   Fanaticism,    Tyranny — 

Triple  monsters  born  of  Hell! 

Relief  to  turn  to  prairies  free 

And  view  their  balmy  pageants  well. 

Fowls  of  the  air,  when  Man  intrudes, 

Signal   and    fly   in    friendly    broods; 

Steeds  of  the  plains,  in  wintry  weather, 

Form   in   friendly   bands  together. 

Like  the  wolf  he  tames  and  loves  alway, 

Man  makes  his  brother  man  a  prey. 

Historian  Gibbon,  writer  grand, 

His   glowing  pen  at   last  resigned. 

His  stately  work  of  brain  and  hand — • 

Rich  reflex  of  his  noble  mind 

And  gen'rous  heart,  he  hoped  might  live, 

Yet   called   it   but  a  narrative 

Of  crimes  and  follies  of  mankind. 

"And  justice,  sir,"  he  sadly  said, 

"Is  theory — a  fiction   dead." 

An  envious,  jealous,  hateful  breed 

Of  mortal  pygmies  fight  and  bleed 

To  sate  their  souls  with  boundless  greed. 

The  cultured  man,  despite  his  gains 

In  outward  grace  and  bookish  lore, 

Too  often  unredeemed  remains — 

Is  brutal  savage  as  before. 

Heed  not  vaneer  and  outward  grace, 

But  view  him  as  a  flunkey  base, 

Or  tyrant  of  his  helpless  race. 

Though  platitudes  may  sound  the  worth 

Of  rogues   triumphant,   villians  bold, 


ON   PRAIRIES  WILD  43 

The  simple  truth  must  yet  be  told: 
No  golden  age  has  had  its  birth. 

A  glory  in  the  autumn  skies 

O'ercomes   all    Prairie    Land. 

In  sunset  pomps  of  dazzling  dyes 

The  vast  orb  in  the  distance  lies, 

And  showers  beams  like  golden  sand. 

Its  colors  change — a  million   hues 

Transform,  relight,  float  off,  confuse. 

If  red  to  deepest  purple  grows, 

Soon  all  is  gold;  then  orange  flows 

In  billowy  masses   without  end 

Till  richer  tints  and  colors  blend. 

Every  hue  that  decks  the  rose, 

Or  tint  that  gilds  the  tropic  sea, 

Arrays    this   orb   of   mystery — 

In  vivid  sheen  and  splendor  glows. 

The  basking  plains  in  joy  admire, 

They   smile    at    sunset's    liquid    fire. 

Vast  luminary!   that  light  affords 

To  grateful  earth  and  sister  stars, 

What   wonder   that   barbaric   hordes  y 

Appealed  to  thee  in  ancient  wars; 

In  thee  beheld  a  god  indeed — 

In  daily  view  before  men's  eyes — 

A  childish  yet  a   simple  creed, 

Since  all  that  lives,  or  moves,  or  dies, 

On   thee  for  heat  and   life  relies. 

Coronado  rode  this  endless  plain, 
And  o'er  it  led  his  mail  clad  knights 
To  seize  it  for  imperial  Spain. 
They  saw  the  bison's  mighty  flights 
From  north  to  south  and  back  again. 
With  firearms  and  trusty  lance 
And  brazen  shield,  they  made  advance. 
They  viewed   the  savage  with  disdain. 
Then  came  the  chivalry  of  France, 
With  empire's  lust  and  boundless  claim. 
American  knights  adventured  here — 
Houston,  Bowie,  Carson  and   Sevier; 
Men  of  high,  impetuous  will — 
Stern  zealot  Brown,  eccentric  Lane, 
Harney,  Cody,  Custer  and  Wild  Bill. 
Their  gypsy  blood  impelled  them  on; 
Full  soon  all  foreign  flags  were  gone. 
'Mong  western  lords  of  virgin  earth 
George  Rogers  Clark  will  shine  for  aye. 
What  bard  will  dare  extol  his  worth 
In  hasty,  unpretentious  lay? 
Immense  events   he  set  in  play! 


44  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

A  grateful  land  applauds  his  name. 
Zebulon  Pike!    far  in  the  West 
A  gorgeous  mountain  rears  its  crest — 
Forever  keeps  his  martial   fame. 

Men's  lives — how   great  the  import   seems 
To  each;  he  toils,  he  deeply  schemes, 
Then  dies   upon  some   lonely  spot, 
Leaves   dust  and   bones — and   he's   forgot. 
A  trillion  mortals  pass  away — 
They  vanish  like  a  smothered  flame, 
A  falling  star  of  summer's  night — 
And   leave  to  earth  their  useless  clay, 
Ere    History    records   a   name, 
Or  lifts  a  single  deed  to  fame. 
How  vain  Ambition's  anxious  quest. 
'Twere  wise  to  vanish   like  the  rest. 
Thus   mused   the  desert  anchorite, 
Yet  could  not  keep  this  truth  in  sight, 
Nor  play  such  craven  part  aright. 

On  Syrian  sands,  old  annals  tell, 

Dwelt  crazy   dupes,   fanatics   lean, 

In  tents  and  huts  and  holes  unclean, 

Fulfilling  vows  and   plans   unwise 

In  hope  to  merit  Paradise 

"By  making  troublous  earth  a  Hell." 

Howe'er  imperious  hearts  rebel, 

The   noblest  place  for   man   to   dwell, 

His  proper  home,  it  seems  to  me, 

Is  where  his  duty  bids  him  be. 

For  peace,   repose,   and   mental   rest, 

The  flow'ry   solitude   is  best. 

The  nymphs  and  gods,  in  days  of  yore, 

Sought   not   the   crowded   haunts    of   men. 

They  lingered  in  some  leafy  glen, 

On   mountain   slope  or   ocean   shore, 

On  fields  with  flowers  all  aflame; 

They  vanished  when  a  mortal  came. 

Our  fellow   man,   when   at   his   best, 

Not  always  proves  a  welcome  guest. 

We  look  him  o'er  with  scornful  smile; 

His  hard  conditions  makes  him  vile. 

Raised  out  of  Fate's  unfriendly  groove, 

His  tendency  is  to  improve. 

Creeds  decay.     Superstition  fails — 

The  brotherhood  of  man  prevails. 

Life  is  war — its  trials  weather, 

Help  your  faint  or  wounded  brother, 

Face  the  'battle's  earthquake  thunder, 

Fight  the  brutes  that  keep  the  nations  under. 


ON     I'RAI  Rl  KS    \VI  I,  I)  45 

VIII 

In  this  weird  zone  do  wizards  dwell; 

Around  me  now  they  cast  a  spell. 

Along  the   highland's   hazy   lines 

Far  off.  remote,  a  city  shines; 

A    Rome,   a    Ninrveh,    I    see 

With   gates  and  walls  of  majesty, 

With  citadels  of  princes   great, 

And  palaces  of  royal  state. 

Lo!    where  yon  misty  cloudlet  lies 

Are  battlements —  and  cliffs  arise. 

What   rich   illusions  meet  the  eye, 

Clear   lined    against   a   golden   sky — 

All  mural  pomp,  the  pride  of  kings, 

The  grandeur  of  all  mortal  things. 

And  on  the  plain,  in  easy  view, 

Are   lakes  and   pools  and   rivers  bright. 

For  famished  beast  or  plainsman  true, 

What  rippling  fountains  now  invite. 

O  vain  mirage!  how  like  the  dreams 

We  have  of  life  when  life  is  new. 

Then  fair  the  rosy  future  seems, 

Our  thoughts  how  free  and  cares  how  few; 

Each  field  with  high  achievement  teems. 

So  Fancy  paints  our  path  ahead 

Till  hopes  and  garlands  all  are  dead. 

And  shall  we  sigh?     Shall  curses  fall 

From  scornful  and  embittered  lips? 

Accept  the   common  lot   of  all, 

And  only  smile  at  Life's  eclipse. 

IX 

A  cavalcade  of  Indians  came, 
Led  by  'a  chief  of  widest  fame. 
They  rode  at  speed  with  graceful  pride, 
And  formed  a  strange,  a  warlike  scene. 
Their  shields  of  white  of  bison  hide 
Swung  loosely  at  each  rider's  side, 
Or  poised  across  his  swarthy  breast. 
His  rifle  lay  at  ready  rest; 
Aloft  were  glittering  lances  keen. 
Nearly  naked  rode  they  all; 
Stirrups,  saddles,  had  they  none. 
Against  the  prairie's  vernal  wall 
They  formed  a  pageant  in  the  sun. 
No  idle  hunt  allured  that  day; 
They  waged  an  internecine  fray. 
The  pale  face  now  was  not  their  foe. 
In  tribal  feud  they  planned  a  blow. 

The  War  Chief  used  no  polished  words, 
But  knew  the  language  of  the  birds; 


46  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED' 

Could  imitate  the  wolf's  lone  cry 
In  signal  that  a  foe  was  nigh; 
Unskilled  in  any  bookish  art, 
Without  a  compass  or  a  chart, 
Could  fleetly  pass  the  desert  o'er 
And  find  at  last  the  shallow  stream, 
And  camp   in  comfort  on  its   shore; 
Could  duplicate  the  panther  scream, 
The  wounded  bison's  threat'ning  roar, 
Weird  screech  of  owl  or  coyote  yell; 
Could  trail  the  deer  or  antelope, 
And   far   beyond  his   horoscope 
Could  scent  a  peril  moving  nigh. 
Unlearned  in  books,  unlettered  quite, 
He  yet  was  trained,  a  prairie  knight — 
For  his  rude  life  was  fitted  well; 
Thoughts  he  had,  reflective  mind — 
This  dauntless  leader  of  his  kind. 
Well  might  his  war-whoop  terrify, 
So  loud  and  keen,  or  wild  or  shrill, 
For  in  it  pealed  his  savage  will 
To  hasten  strife,  to  fight,  to  kill; 
To  riot  o'er  the  captive's  fate, 
To  torture,  burn — fiend  incarnate! 
There  was  no  limit  to  his  hate. 
Hereditary  instinct  made  him  so. 
He  ne'er  forgot  a  friend,  forgave  a  foe. 

In  words  and  phrases  not  our  own, 
(Though  well  the  meaning  one  might  take,) 
In  friendly  truce — in  chat  alone, 
Thus  freely  to  Glendare  he  spake: 

"The    Indian    is    a    cavalier, 
A  forest  ranger,  desert  lord; 
A  sportsman  free  without  a  fear, 
A  soldier,  sentry,  on  his  guard; 
A  chieftain  proud  or  vassal  brave. 
The  pale-face  is  a  drudge,  a  slave. 
He  digs  in  earth  with  heavy  tool, 
To  make  the  torn-up  soil  produce — 
To  only  prove  himself  a  fool — 
For  all  his  toil  there  is  no  use. 
Untilled  by  man  the  frontiers  yield 
Abundant  meats  and  luscious  fruits. 
These  plains  o'erteem  with  fatted  brutes, 
Wild  fowl  abound  and  fish  infest 
The  mountain  lake  and  midland  pool. 
The  Indian's  life  is  far  the  best. 
Like  prairie  dog  or  gopher  base, 
Far  burrows  down  the  sad  pale-face 
In  anxious  quest  of  buried  ore 


ON     P  R  A  I  R  I  i:  S    \Y  1  L  D  47 

To  pi !»•   away   in   secret  store. 

Hi*  hazards  life  and  ruins  health 

To  hoard  away  such  sordid  wealth. 

What    profit  from   his  toil   proceeds? 

\NV   scorn   the   dirty   life   he   leads. 

Jehovah,  the  white  man's  god, 

Feeds  fat  on  gold  and  human  blood; 

He  robs  the  native   Indian  race 

To  put  his  people  in   their  place — 

To  glut  the  greed  of  the  fierce  pale-face. 

In  hosts  these  greedy  strangers  come, 

They  sow  their  grain  on  Indian  graves; 

They  bring  us  baubles,  Bibles,  rum — 

A  few  are  lords,  the  rest  are  slaves. 

All  free,  as  yet,  are  Indian  braves." 

Pleased  with  his  views  thus  Glendare  spoke: 
"The  lords  of  men  are  secret  foes, 
Agreeing  now,  then   plotting  woes. 
Their  dupes?     Trained  animals  in  clothes. 
From  acorn  small  springs  up  the  oak 
That  falls  before  the  axe's  stroke. 
Far  off  the  time  when  changes  cease. 
It    is    unhappy    human    lot. 
As  nations  thrive  new  ills   increase. 
Nowhere  the  land  where  ills  are  not. 
The  purpose  of  the  Universe 
Xo  mortal  brain  will  ever  solve. 
Tpon  us  lies  no  primal  curse, 
But  not  for  us  the  stars  revolve. 
What    the   mighty   panorama   means 
Is  hid  behind  eternal  screens. 
Wild  creatures  of  the  tangled  wood 
In  terror  live,  in  torture  die. 
Their   lot  demands  fierce  hardihood. 
They  snare,  they  tear,  they  feast  on  blood, 
They  perish  when  they  may  not  fly. 
From  very  birth  this  is  their  fate. 
They  cannot  change  this  rueful  state. 
Man  preys  on  them;  he  claims  the  right. 
His  claim  alone  is  brutal  might, 
And  brutal  might  is  all  the  law 
That  Man  applies   to  fellow   men. 
By  craft  and  force,  by  tricks  that  awe, 
By   knavery    and    subtle    brain 
O'er   humbler   men   he   gathers   rein. 
And  breeds  of  men  their  force  employ 
To  rob,   o'erwhelm,   enslave,  destroy. 
The  weaker  race  must  lose  a  land 
The  stronger  race  would  fain  enjoy. 
No  deity  has  made  command 
That  this  should  be;  on  every  hand 


48  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

We  see  it  flaming  in  our  sight 

That  all  must  bow  to  ruthless  might. 

Since  dawn  of  time  this  rule  has  been — 

The  weak  must  yield  to  stronger  men. 

A  wretched  race  that  will  not  fight 

Must  bow  the  knee  to  brutal  might. 

Jehovahs  bring  the  world  distress; 

The  gods  have  all  been  merciless, 

Fomenting   strife   and   grievous   pain; 

They  come  to  curse  and  not  to  bless — 

These   dragons  of  the  human  brain. 

Each  one  a  while  holds  ruthless  reign, 

Then  wanes  away  to  nothingness. 

Anon  a  spectre  frights  again, 

Of  different  form,  with  different  name; 

His  bloody  instincts  are  the  same. 

For  power,  gold  and  royal  place, 

His  haughty  minions  ply  their  game. 

Our   sages  find  abundant  trace 

That  fathers  of  the  Indian   race 

Swept  mighty  monuments   away 

Greater  than  we  have  to-day. 

We  cannot  place  a  blame  at  all, 

But  evil  brothers  are  we  all. 

Civilizations  rise — to  fall! 

Their  weight,  injustice,  racial  strife, 

Their  factions,  luxury  and  pride, 

Sap  away  their   inward   life; 

They  lose  their   prowess — empire   wide. 

When  Caesar   reigns  without  a  friend, 

He  totters  to  his  bloody  end. 

Men  weary  of  what's  false  to  all; 

They  gladly  see  the  fabric  fall. 

In    circles    do    these    changes    move. 

This  truth  all  storied  records  prove. 

A  race  prevails,  supreme,  and  then 

Reverts  to  savagery  again. 

The  land  that  rules  all  mortal  men 

Becomes  at  last  the  lion's  den. 

The  masses  rise,  o'erconre  their  kings, 

And  rend  to  dust  all  former  things. 

From  each  restraint  they   gain   release, 

Destruction  thus  to  all  is  brought." 

In  council  grave,  exchanging  thought, 

They  smoked  at  ease  the  Pipe  of  Peace. 

X 

Far  down  the  woods  the  black  night  fell; 
The  restlesg  lightnings  blazed  and  flashed, 
And  strewed  the  skies  with  hues  of  Hell, 
Or   through   the   moaning  forest   crashed, 
Scathing  a  way  through  tangled  shades, 


ON     P  R  A  I  K  1  !•  S    \V  I  L  D  49 

Cleaving  the  oaks  like  lindens  frail; 
Rebounding  from  their  burning  raids, 
Thru  dying  on  the  midnight  gale. 
The  angry  thunders  surged  and  rolled 
Like  volleys  of  contending  gods; 
The  rains  swept  down  in  torrents  cold, 
And  bowed  the  trees  like  trembling  rods. 
The  scared  deer  hid  in  dripping  dells, 
The  panther  ceased  his  hungry  yells 
And  slunk  within  his  jungled  lair; 
The  wolves  fled  frantic  in  the  glare 
That  smote  the  earth  and  deluged  air, 
And  all  fierce  things  ignored  their  prey 
Since  Chaos  seemed  resuming  sway. 

Lost  in  storm,   in  darkest  night; 

Brave  indeed,  yet  filled   with  fright, 

She  far  off  saw  his  cabin's  light. 

Her  faithful  steed  responded  well, 

And  while  the  tempest  round  her  fell, 

Went  rushing  on  through  wild  uproar, 

And  safely  reached  his  cabin  door. 

With  deep  surprise   and    ready   zeal, 

He  welcome  gave  to  quick  appeal. 

Her  charger  housed  and  she  at  rest, 

She  was  at  once  an  honored  guest. 

The  rudest   lair   seemed  safe  escape. 

Her  throat  was  spanned  with  chains  of  gold. 

Rich  jewels  flashed  in  brilliance  cold 

On  dainty   hands  of  faultless  shape. 

Disheveled  o'er   her  snowy  breast, 

And    round    her   shoulders'    perfect    lines, 

Like  thunder  clouds  along  the  west 

When  low  the  sun  in  setting  shines, 

Her  dense  black  locks  in  masses  streamed, 

Wet  with  the  strong  tornado's  breath, 

Thick  hedging   in  a  face   that  beamed 

With  light  and  love,  as  saints  have  dreamed 

The  pure  shall  have  when  freed  by  death — 

A  sweet,  refined,  expressive  face, 

And  yet  whereon  the  eye  could  trace 

Some  signs  of  power,   slumb'ring  still 

In  silent  strength,  yet  quick  to  rise 

If  summoned  by  a   firm   set  will 

Veiled  in  her  beauty's  silken  guise. 

Her  story  brief— far  in  the  east, 

Beyond    the   woods   and    prairies   free, 

Where  rock-reared  bluffs  in  grandeur  flank 

The    southward    rolling    inland    sea — 

Where  fleets  float  on  the  billows  blue, 

And  winds  are  fair  and  isles  are  few, 

And  sunbeams  fall  on  clouds  of  steam, 


50  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Or  flash  and  glance  from  dripping  oars; 

Where  Commerce  crowns  the  boundless  stream. 

And  cities  line  the  rival  shores, 

And   vineyards  spread  with  vigor  rank 

O'er  lands  that  groan  with  wealth  increased; 

And    Labor's    bustle,    roar,    and    clank 

Proclaim  that  all,  from  great  to  least, 

Must  strongly  toil   with   brain,  or  hand, 

Obedient    to    Pate's    command, 

And  toiling  thus  may  win  and  feast — 

There  was  her  home;   in  halls  of  pride, 

That  looked  afar  o'er  hill  and  tide, 

Without   a   wish   ungratified, 

The  queen  of  Fashion's  petted  throng 

She  dwelt,  her   life  a  joyous  maze 

Of   bright   and   unembittered    days, 

All  intertwined  with  smiles  and  song. 

At  length  the  woods  and  breezy  plain, 

In  contrast  with  her  home  of  ease, 

Seemed  like  the  green  and  glad  domain 

Some  heart-sick  royal  captive  sees, 

Sad  gazing  through  his  prison  screens 

While  vironed  round  with  choicest  scenes. 

Her  wayward  fancy  prone  to  please, 

With  gallant  guard  and  ample  train 

She  crossed  the  prairies  wide  as  seas. 


XI 

Apart  the  joyless  hermit  stood 

With  folded   arms,   in  evil  mood, 

For   dark  temptations   filled   that   solitude. 

The  maid  reclined,  absorbed  in  thought, 

Unconscious  that  her  beauty   wrought 

Within  his  brain  a  maddened  spell, 

And  that  his  gaze  upon  her  fell 

As  merciless  as  fiendish  Hell, 

Feeding  the  source   from   whence   it   came- 

Feasting   like  a  treacherous  flame 

Upon  the  pyre  that  gives  it  life — 

Insensate,  lawless,  heartless,  rife 

With  mad  thoughts  that  impetuous  rise 

In  burning  youth,   unveiled  by  sighs, 

Yet   panoplied   in   hues   of  love. 

As  the  serpent  glares  on  the  dove 

That  cannot  fly  its  poisoned  fangs, 

And   yet   forbears   to    strike,    and   hangs 

Above  its   prey,  content   to  know 

It  cannot  'scape  the  deadly  blow, 

So  stood  he  there,  his  impulse  blind 

Holding  his  soul   in  abject   thrall. 


ON   PRAIRIES   WILD  51 

.Mind  ot'i  can  converse,  hold  with  mind 
Though  not  a  word  from  lips  may  fall; 
To  speak,  not  language  may  require, 
But   eyes   can    flash    magnetic    fire — 
Can    blaze   with    purpose   and    desire, 
Transmitting  shafts  of  viewless  might 
That  shock  the  dormant  brain  they  smite, 
And  rouse  it  up,  as  hosts  at  night 
Spring  from  fields  of  doubtful  fight 
When  loud  alarms  the  bugles  call, 
And  bolts  of  vengeance  hissing  fall. 

She  started   like  the  hunted  deer, 

When  swift  the  baying  hounds  advance; 

She  trembled   with  a  nameless   fear, 

And,  turning,  met   his  threat'ning  glance; 

Then,  nerved  by  some  strange  strength,  she  rose, 

And  stood  erect — a  perfect  queen — 

Unbounded  was  emotion's  reach, 

And  with  Zenobia's  tragic  mien 

She   coined  her   proud  contempt  in  speech. 

He  heard  her  not — he  only  saw 

A  grandeur  in  her  stormy  eyes 

That  touched  his  guilty  soul  with  awe 

Too  deep  for  demon  to  despise — 

A   purity   that  seemed  sublime, 

More  portent  far  to  banish  crime 

Than  great  Jehovah's  sternest  law, 

Or  Man's  most  pitiless  decree.  ^ 

O,  more  magnificent  her  rage 

Than   richest  canvas  could  reflect; 

So  warm  with  youth,  as  wise  as  age, 

And  bitter  as  o'erweening  pride 

With   sense   of  deepest  wrong  allied, 

Or  sudden  hatred  could  direct. 

Tnused  to  polished  beauty's  wiles 

Her  anger  moved  him  more  than  smiles. 

From  such  as  she  no  servile  prayer 

Was  needed  to  escape  his  snare; 

Her   scathing  words   were  swifter  far 

To  reach  his  heart  than  strong  appeal ;  • 

They  played  like  brightly  burnished  steel — 

Blazing  rancor   could   not   mar 

Their  fine  effect,  nor  force  him  feel 

One  vengeful  impulse  in  return. 

By   nature  swift,  by  training  stern, 

Implacable,  quick  to  resent, 

Too  proud  to  pity  or  repent, 

The  very  courage  of  her  will, 

The  very  fervor  of  her  ire, 

Dazzled  and   disarmed  him   still, 

And  bid  him  honor  and  admire. 


52  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

(Because  the  budding  rose  is  fair, 

0  break  not  thou  its  fragile  stem, 
Nor  scatter  on  the  wanton  air 
The  splendors  of  its  diadem, 

But  shield  it  with  Love's  gen'rous  care — 
Earth  may  not  lose  her  slightest  gem.) 

XII 

In  parting  'neath  a  forest  oak 
These  farewell  words  he  gravely  spoke: 
"To  distant  border  wilds  I  came 
To  hide  defeat  and  sense  of  shame; 
At  Nature's  shrine  to  win  relief 
From  wounded  pride  and  olden  grief; 
To  conquer  vice  and  ponder  o'er 
The  golden  truths  of  stoic  lore; 
For  safety,  too;  for  mind's  repose. 

1  left  behind,   embittered   foes. 

By  whom  each  cruel  wrong  was  wrought, 

What  ills  I  had  now  matters  'not. 

I   planned  to  pass   untroubled  years 

In  weaving  strong,  unlabored  songs, 

Nor  cared  if  cold  and  busy  throngs 

Should  e'er  by  me  be  moved  to  tears, 

Or  lifted  from  the  servile  plane 

To  which  they  must  return  again. 

I  found  all  nature  fresh  and  free; 

Companions   here   awaited   me. 

I  met  the  fierce  things  face  to  face, 

They  lingered  and  were  friends  to  me. 

The  prairies  green  spread  like  a  sea; 

The  woods,  the  plains,  enraptured  me. 

Resigned   was  Glory's  eager  chase. 

By  a  clamorous  world  forgot 

Its  vain,  far  tumult  reached  me  not. 

My  heart  had  burned  with  martial  flame — 

O,  greatness,  power,  brilliant  name; 

Adventure,  conquest,  moved  my  brain — 

Romantic   dreams  and  schemes   insane! 

But  times  had  changed;  there  was  no  peal 

Of  trumpet  loud,  no  gleam  of  steel 

Across  the  sunlit  battle  plain, 

No  where  was  spot  where  I  might  reign. 

I  had  not  found  my  proper  place — 

My  vantage  point  of  high  emprise — 

Among  the  wrangling  hordes  of  men; 

I  turned  away.     These  desert  skies, 

These  woodland  shades,  were  pleasant  then. 

I  found  the  peace  that  sages  seek; 

The  self  same  peace,  and  all  unbought, 

Of  which  the  sons  of  Fortune  speak 

Yet  ne'er  enjoy.     That  envied   prize 

For  which  the  weary  monarch  sighs, 


ON    PRA1RIKS    WILD  53 

For  which  the  rich  man  piles  his  gold; 

For  which   the   miser   hoards   his   spoil; 

Thai    tempts   the   \\eak   and   spurs  the  bold — 

The   purpose   of  all    mortal   toil. 

I    dwelt  content  till  that  fierce  night 

Your  presence  filled  my  home  with   light. 

No  keen  reproach  my  lips  employ, 

My   bosom   holds   no  vain  regret. 

I  would  not  give  the  hours  of  joy 

That  I  have  known  since  first  we  met 

For  gems  that  deck  a  Sultan's  brow. 

But  feelings  strange  oppress  me  now, 

Nor  sighs   avail.     This   lonely   heart 

Must  deeply  mourn  that  e'er  we  met, 

Since  now  we  must  forever  part. 

Adieu,   sweet  friend!    our   march   is   done. 

In  happier  scenes,  with  pleasures  gay, 

Think  sometimes  of  an  absent  one 

On  boundless  prairies  far  away." 

XIII 

Not   long  he   mourned   the    lady's  flight. 
He  felt  at  eve,  or  solemn   night, 
That  from  his  life  a  joy  had  gone, 
A   pleasantry,   a    wondrous    charm — 
A  brilliant  page  to  muse  upon 
With  oOft  and  melancholy  thought, 
That  boded  of  some  future   harm, 
Or    menaced    peace   of    present    lot; 
But  transient  was  the  sorrow  light. 
Too  much  of  evil  had  he  borne, 
To  care  for  petty  cross  like  this. 
He  smiled   anon  in  very  scorn. 
A  barren  life  indeed  if  bliss 
Is  builded  on  a  woman's  smile; 
And  yet  she  caused  unrest  a  while. 
He  pondered  of  the  world  afar, 
Its  greatness  and  eternal  war, 
Then  sighed  for  prowess — golden  sway — 
To  hold  its  multitudes  at  bay; 
To  conquer,  baffle,  selfish  men; 
To  lead  in  uproar  and  affray. 
His  olden  genius  woke  again. 

A  child  of  Nature,  Pagan,  he; 
A  cynic,  doubter,  skeptic  free, 
He  yet  invoked  pale  Destiny: 

'Come  forth  from  out  the  forest  green — 
From  out  its  deepest,  darkest  shade — 
O  Destiny,  mysterious  queen 
Of  powers  known  but  swayed  unseen, 


54  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

And  speak  once  more  with  royal  mien. 

Where  are  my  future  fortunes  laid? 

Shall  stern  defeats  continue  mine, 

Or  do  the  golden  laurels  shine 

Which  yet  one  day  these  hands  will  seize 

And  press  upon  my  fevered  brows? 

She  answers  not.     The  drowsy  breeze 

Comes  sighing  from  the  woodlands  deep; 

The  wildwood  monarchs  toss  their  boughs 

In  mockery,  or  clad  in  gloom 

Seem  shrouded  in  eternal  sleep; 

The  sultry  zephyrs  slowly  steep 

The  air  in  oceans  of  perfume." 

Far  happier  the  savage  hind 
Who  plans  but  for  an  idle  day, 
Than  he  whose  fierce,  unrestful   mind 
O'er   mighty   schemes   must  brood   alway; 
Who  knows  not  peace,  nor  yet  can  find 
His  tow'ring   path   with    danger   fraught; 
Who  worships  with  devotion  blind 
The   goddess   Fame,    who   heeds   him    not. 
Most  weird  and  strange,  unhappy  doom — 
Ambition's  fires  his  soul  consume. 

Though  Nature  soothes  each  passing  mood, 

And  comforts  Man  in   solitude, 

She  has  no  rest.     The  roses  bloom, 

The  summers  pass,  the  dead  leaves  fall; 

Unsullied  snows  envelop   all — 

Then  with  the  breath  of  balmy  deeps, 

Far  from  the  South  the  warm  wind  sweeps; 

The  dull  gray  sky  pours  down  its  rain 

And  changing  earth  grows  green  again, 

Yet   all    its   greenness   and    its   bloom 

But  herald   storms  and  wintry   gloom. 

How  sweet  is  rest!  The  whole  earth  groans 

With  heavy  toil;   the  still  flood  sighs, 

The  weary  ocean  moves  and  moans, 

The  summer  wind  a  sadness  owns — 

Upon  the  rose's  heart  it  dies. 

Amid  the  din  of  daily  strife, 

The  competition  and  the  strain 

Of  strength,   ambition,   nerve  and  brain — 

The  dizzy  whirl  of  busy  life — 

How  oft  we  long  for  deep  content, 

Revolt  from  cares  that  but  increase, 

And  dream  of  scenes  of  utmost  peace. 

No  vulgar  despot  could  invent 

A  tyranny  of  such  deep  skill 

To  torture  us,  as  fierce  desires 


ON    PRAIRI  I.S    WILD  55 

('oml)iiuMl  with  an  unyielding  will, 

And  energy  that  never  tires. 

And  yet  the  rest  for  which  we  sigh 

Would  be  affliction  keener  far 

Than  frenzied  toil  for  purpose  high, 

Or  bold  Ambition's  vainest  war. 

Some  men  are  born  to  have  and  hold, 

And  some  are  born  by  force  to  win. 

These  latter  are  of  such  a  mold 

That  Eden  scarce  could  gird  them  in 

If  there  no  field  for  them  were  found, 

Xo  place  of  strife,  no  battle  ground. 

Fierce  action  is  the  living  breath 

Of  master  souls — repose  is  death. 

Green   solitude  and   Nature's   hush 

Recall  ambition  once  again, 

And  in  the  fury  and  the  crush 

Of  battling  crowds,  where  strength  and  brain 

Alone  can  rule  or  gather  gain, 

There  is  the  place  for  man  to  reign. 

A   tender  sadness   may   surround 

Some  scene  that  gave  us  only  joy, 

But  haughty  pleasure  oft  is  found 

In  lingering  o'er  some  battle  ground 

That  sternest  ardors  did   employ. 

XIV 

Had  I  the  boasted  wealth  of  Ind, 

If  millions  moved  at  my  command 

As  leaves  fly  on  October's  wind, 

Or  sands  glint  on  the  ocean  strand, 

To  goddess  Change  there  would  arise 

A  shining  pillar  to  the  skies — 

Of  art  imperishable  and  grand. 

A  vast   memorial   would   I   build 

In  honor  of  the  goddess  Change; 

A  stately  shaft,  whose  templed  base 

Would  shine  with  architectural  grace, 

And   glitter  till  the  air  was  filled 

With  brilliance  from  such  noble  place — 

A  glorious  shaft  to  goddess  Change — 

Ornate  from  hands  supremely  skilled 

In  all  of  art  that  mortals  know; 

In  all  that  Genius  finds  a  range 

To  light  with  supernatural  glow; 

A  monument  of  human  toil 

That  age  on  age  would  fail  to  spoil. 

Full  fair  'twould  shine  in  rich  sunlight 

Till  endless  eons  took  their  flight. 

This  would  I  do  for  goddess  Change. 

What  joy  to  leave  each  scene  effete, 

The  tiresome  haunts  we  secret  hate; 


56  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

The  sights  to  us  no  longer  sweet, 
The  places  dull  where  trials  wait; 
Where  pleasant  hours  no  days  afford, 
Or  where,  mayhap,   some  petty  lord 
Assumes  o'er  us  to  wield  a  sway — 
Insulting  chief  of  but  a  day. 
What  joy  to  fling  restraints  away, 
To  wave  to  loathsome  scenes  adieu; 
To  fly  at  once  and  far  away, 
And  meet  no  more  each  troublous  view. 
New  friends,  new  scenes;   old  ills  forgot, 
Enchantment  fills  the  new-found  spot, 
And  makes  the  pensive  stranger  gay. 
Though  oft  at  Wealth  we  must  inveigh, 
'Tis   gold  that  buys  this  happy   lot; 
It  gives  us  wings  to  haste  away  • 
Where  hateful  cares  and  griefs  are  not. 
Though  far  the  reckless  truant  range 
Through  Eldorado's  region  strange, 
With  grateful  joy  his  voice  is  fraught: 
"All  hail!    our  happy  goddess  Change." 

Wanderlust!     It  stirs  the  blood 

Till  stagnant  pool  is  raging  flood, 

Till  peace  is  fled  and  tumult  reigns. 

From  those  bleak  plains,  those  Orient  plains 

Of  utmost  East,  of  Bactrian  fame, 

Our   restless   Aryan   fathers   came. 

O'er  other  lands  they  poured  in   swarms, 

With  battle  cry  and  trenchant  arms; 

They  bore  their  way  where'er  they  willed, 

For  courage  high  their  bosoms  filled, 

And  arts  and  arms  and  martial  pride 

And  liberty  marched  by  their  side. 

Where  wild  the  Aryan  clarion  rung, 

The  light  of  Civilization  sprung. 

Laws  and  freedom,  glory,  art  and  song, 

Whate'er  to  noblest  scenes  belong, 

From  restless  Wanderlust  were  born. 

Each  stated  toil  repulse  with  scorn, 

With  hate  regard  familiar  haunts, 

Despise  the  despot's  haughty  taunts, 

Defiance    wave    to    foes    around, 

And  cross  the  designated  bound. 

One  joy  is  left  from  barren  years, 

To  fling  aside  our  paltry  fears, 

And  spring  to  arms  and  still  advance 

Where  Wanderlust  each  soul  enchants. 

New  lands,  new  scenes,  we  choose  to  range. 

Let  timid  hearts  incline  to  peace 

And  fondly  hug  their  olden  chains. 

Our  lips  demand  a  swift  release, 


ON    PKAIKI  K  S    \VI  I.D  57 


Full    friTdom    now   and   ceaseless  change. 
This  lu>  our  code  while  life  remains. 


thoughts,  these  moods,  awoke  Glendare. 
They  floated  on  the  listless  air; 
Ay.  came  in  echoes  from  the  wood, 
hi  murmurs  from  each  solitude, 
In  songs  of  birds,  in  smothered  cry 
Of  wolf  or  beast  that  hurried  by; 
In   rippling  of   the   foamy  stream. 
All   things   destroyed   his  olden   dream 
Of  rest  and  peace  and  tranquil  thought 
Forever  born  on  one  lone  spot. 
'Seek  you  the  grave,"  the  light  wind  said, 
'And  find  your  peace  with  people  dead. 
Xo  voice  disturbs  a  dead  man's  grave. 
Vain   fool,   arouse!    to  grieve   no  more; 
This  world  was  made  for  wild  uproar. 
Away!    Away!    to   cities    great 
To  find  a  joy  in  fierce  debate, 
In  stern  resolve,  in  manly  strife, 
In  purpose  won,  triumphant  hate^  — 
Excitement  is  the  boon  of  life." 

His  heart  obeyed   with  rapture  wild. 

Once  more  he  roved  as  Fancy's  child. 

He  passed  where  lands  in  beauty  smiled. 

Great  cities  tired  —  he  crossed   the  seas, 

And   loved   their  billows   undefiled, 

Their  wondrous  pomp;  in  moods  like  these 

He  worshipped,  like  mad   votaries 

Of  airy  gods  that  men  obey; 

The  elements  he  saw  in  play, 

Unawed  he  viewed  the  whirlwind  storm; 

Tremendous  force,  in  any  form, 

He  loved  alway,  nor  cared  what  harm 

Or  ghastly  wreck  bestrewed  its  way. 

'Tis   Nature's   plan  —  no  dainty  course  — 

To  have  its  will  with  awful  force, 

And  in  each  petty  human  tray 

'Tis  Force,  impetuous,  achieves  the  day. 

He  roamed  at  will  from  coast  to  coast, 
Through  nations  new  and  countries  old; 
The  tropic  lands  appeased  him  most, 
For  withered  Earth  is  growing  cold. 
Xo  more  it  spreads  a  flowery  fold; 
The  great  Sun  wanes  from  lack  of  heat; 
Faint  fall  its  rays,  and  Nature's  doom 
Will  make  of  Earth  an  icy  tomb. 
Still,  still  where  tropic  scenes   unfold 
Neglected  Earth  is  clad  in  bloom  — 


58  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Our  quiv'ring,   trembling,  crumbling  Earth 

Where  scanty  joys   have  had  their   birth, 

Where  countless  miseries  consume. 

By   Man's   misfortunes   oft   confused, 

And  with  resolve  to  place  the  blame, 

In   crowded  capitals  he  mused, 

In  olden  lands  of  ancient  fame. 

Where  now  fair  children  gaily  romp, 

He  saw  proud  armies  pass  in  pomp, 

For  War  had  left  its  trail  of  fire. 

Such -thrilling  scenes    bid   him   admire. 

He  trod  the  fields  of  former  days 

Where  chivalry  won  meed  of  praise; 

Where  crowns  were  lost,  or  human  rights 

Were  won  with  swords  in  splendid  fights. 

Regardless  if  the  fray  was  fair, 

He  honored  all  who  struggled  there. 

He  stood  beside  Napoleon's  tomb, 

For  whom  the  millions  bravely  died — 

With  reverence  and  martial  pride, 

While  voices  filled  the  storied  air, 

He  cast  an   humble   chaplet   there. 

Howe'er  the  maudlin  flunkeys  rave, 

The  right  divine  of  kings  is  laid — 

Shattered,  broken,  shame-arrayed — 

Deep  in  Napoleon's  grave. 

XV 

On,  still  on,  pursued  Glendare 

His  restless,  reckless,  careless  way. 

WTith  revel,  idleness,  with  pleasures  gay 

He  sought  in  vain  and  everywhere 

For  one  choice  thing — his  heart's  content. 

To  few  this  mortal  gift  is  sent. 

Though  nameless  in  the  human  crowd 

As   proud  as   Lucifer   he   kept, 

Nor  ever  o'er  misfortunes  wept — 

That  wound  but  cannot  tame  the  proud. 

To  every  wayward  mood  resigned, 

Bohemian,  and  oft  a  sage, 

He  pondered  all  that  might  engage 

His  thoughtful  eye,  receptive  mind. 

Full  oft  he  paused  from  sinful  sport 

To  brood  o'er  things  of  deep  import. 

He  studied  men  with  keen  intent, 

In  quest  of  trace  of  ray  divine. 

He  saw  them  waste  their  gold  in  wine, 

In  lust,   in  follies  without  name 

That  pass  the  line  of  utmost  blame. 

He  cursed  their  inclinations  base — 

Their  madness  in  such  idle  chase. 

Thus  went  they  on  till  youth  was  past, 


ON    I>  R  A  I  R  I  I.  S    \V  I  L  D  59 

And  woeful  wreck  befell  at  last. 
lmi>atirnt    with   such  brutal   traits, 
With  selfishness  and  instincts  low, 
He  thought  'twas  wise  their  varied  fates 
Were  harsh,  and  recompense  was  slow 
For  all  they  did,  or  sought  to  know. 
He  longed  a  monarch's  sword  to  wield, 
To  wear  a  despot's  gilded  crown; 
•And   these?"  he  said  with  hateful  frown, 
'Fit  food  for  Slaughter's  bloody  field." 
Ah!  too  extreme.     Man's  fate  is  hard. 
Conditions  bind  him  to  his  place; 
They  grind  him  to  a  lot  ill-starred, 
They  rob  him  of  his  native  grace. 
In  vilest  wretch  some  good  is  found 
That  points  him  to  sublimer  ground; 
Some  gen'rous  trait,  some  touch  of  pride, 
Where  manhood  has  not  wholly  died. 
Immersed  in  vice,  he  yet  would  rise 
From  impotence  all  men  despise, 
But  lacks,  alas!  the  innate  force 
To  bear  him  from  his  evil  course. 
Though  faulty,  greedy,  brutal   oft, 
He  lifts  his  weary  eyes  aloft 
And  rues  the  mournful  day  he  fell 
In  power  of  a  siren  spell. 
Your  brother,  he — and  aid  him  well. 
No  rule   absolves   the  sordid  heart 
From  acting  out  this  manly  part. 
Though  former  semblance  all  is  gone, 
Raise  him  up  and  push  him  on. 
Howe'er  old  maxims  are  revered, 
In  classes  men  are  born  and  reared, 
By  mould  of  heritage  and  fate; 
As  varied  each  for   ill   or  good 
As  savage  inmates  of  the  wood; 
Each  of  a  class  like  to  his  kind; 
Of  worth  or  dearth,  debased  and  blind, 
Or  moved  by  most  ambitious  mind. 
The  best  of  men  are  none  too  good — 
Are  often  then  misunderstood. 
To  even   win   what   they  desire 
Drivers,    rulers,    they    require. 
Well  is  the  border  zone  outlined 
Where  intellect  and  thoughts  refined 
True  manhood  lift  from  plane  of  brutes. 
In    Education's   noble  fruits 
Is  born  supremacy  of  Mind, 
And  armed  Force  must  back  the  Law 
That  keeps  the  crazy  mobs  in  awe. 

So  thought  Glendare — in  stately  halls, 


60  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

In  palaces,  on  castle  height, 
Or  by  some  mossy  ruin's  walls, 
Or  on  some  city's  mould'ring  site, 
Or  by  some  hoary  bulwark  steep, 
He  moved   in   meditations  deep, 
And  tribute  paid  .to  other  days. 
And  where,  arrayed  with  lavish  hand, 
Art  spread  her  marvels  to  the  ga?e, 
Each  faithful  to  her  secret  laws, 
He  tarried  long  at  her  command 
With  kindling  eye  and  mute  applause. 

XVI 

Silence,  solitude  and  Fancy's  reign 
Brought  peace  to  him  and  happy  hours, 
But   Memory  assailed  again 
To  torture  with  malignant  powers. 
In  reckless  mood,  remorseful  pain, 
He  sadly  penned  this  mournful  strain: 
"Ah!  years,  how  slow  ye  come  and  go 
For  those  whose  hearts  are  weary   quite. 
Can  Time  xbestow  a  balm  for  woe 
When  Hop'e  has  vanished  from  the  sight? 
Yet  happy  they  whose  barren  way 
Is  decked  no  more  with  castles  bright, 
That  Fate's  fell  blow  will  shatter  low 
Ere  yet  one  day  hath  reached  its  night. 
O  happy  they  whose  fleeting  May 
Has  early  lost  its  utmost  bloom; 
Who  spurn  relief,  and  snatch  from  Grie,f 
Its  sharpest  pang,  its  keenest  doom, 
By  knowing  all  that  can  befall, 
Yet  scorning  all  in  haughty  gloom. 
They  waste  no  tears  o'er  bittex  years, 
Nor  ask  that  Hope  shall  e'er  relume 
Its  dying  ray  o'er  their  bleak  way 
Like  pyre  that  lights  to  some   lone  tomb. 
They've  mastered  lore  that  all  before 
Have  sadly  learned,  and  all  must  know, 
And  in  mute  pain,  with  calm  disdain, 
They  proudly,  bear  their  weight  of  woe. 
Man's  shattered  idols  strew  his  path 
Like  wrecks  flung  on  a  beaten  strand; 
They  mock  his  hopes,  they  rouse  his  wrath, 
Yet  vain  he  lifts  his  vengeful  hand. 
Proud  Nature  scorns  his  weak  disdain! 
Where  shall  he  strike,  with  feeble  pride, 
When  winds  his  empty  rage  deride, 
And  skies  but  smile  at  his  mad  pain? 
O,   vain  is  youth — all   vain   is  life 
To  him  on  whom  dark  sorrows  prey; 
And  better  war  and   bloody  strife 


ON  PRAIRIES  WILD  61 

Than  idle  hours  of  gloomy  day. 
The  Past  appalls — fell   Memory, 
A  vampire,  feeds  upon  my  soul. 
O  that   sonu>  power  came  to  me 
To  blot  the  Past's  abhorrent  scroll. 
O  for  acts  beyond  recall — 
The  fatal  choice  of  ills  unknown; 
The  maddened  rush  to  Honor's  fall, 
The  cruel  wrong,  and  Peace  o'er  thrown. 
No   sorcery   can   build    anew, 
Can  dissipate  these  clouds  of  tears, 
Make  pure  the  deeds  I  wildly  rue, 
Or  brighten  deeply  shadowed   years. 
From  ghosts  of  joy,  in  mute  array, 
Remorse    intense    is    mine    alway. 
O,  Pleasure,  hast  thou  still  a  charm 
As  potent  as  Lucullus  found? 
Stretch  forth  a  fair  and   glowing  arm, 
And  point  to  thy  enchanted   ground. 
I'll  worship  thee!     Away  with  cold 
And   dismal   rules   of   monkish  lore; 
Strange  ecstasies  reward  the  bold — 
Away  with  memories  of  yore; 
Let  harps  resound   and  cymbals  clash, 
And  gems   above    the    dancers    flash, 
And  leafy  boughs,  beneath  the  moon, 
Droop  down  to  hear  illicit  vows; 
I'll  revel  through  my  youth's  gay  noon, 
I'll   make  of  life  a  long  carouse- 
Yea,  bow  me  to  the  drunken  god. 
What  boots  it  all  when  all  is  done? 
When   one  man's  troubled   course   is   run, 
And  o'er  him  rolls  the  vernal  sod? 
Lo!  drink  with  me,  companions  brave, 
For  they  who  moulder  in  the  grave 
Are  happier,  all  ills  forgot, 
Than  we  who  rove  the  foreign  wave, 
Yet  hasten  on  to  that  same  spot." 

XVII 

In  England's  Babylon,  to  his  amaze, 
He  met  the  lady  of  his  frontier  days. 
A  change — an  awful  one — had  crossed  her  life. 
A  maid  no  more — a  spurned  and  fallen  wife — 
Her  choice  had  been  mad  Passion's  shame; 
Her  wealth  was  gone,  her  honor  and  her  name. 
She  sought,  'mong  fallen  creatures,  ruined  men, 
Forgetfulness  of  what  had   been. 
Yet  kindly  did  she  greet  him — with  a  smile. 
In  ghastly  mirth  they  lingered  there  a  while. 
'Twas  dreary  pleasure,  weary  joy; 
Abandon,   pleasantry   with  deep   alloy. 


62  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Each  loathed  to  tarry  where  the  other  stood; 
Lest  grief  and  tears  might  intervene, 
They  pledged  a  glass  with  stoic  fortitude, 
And  laughed — he  sadly  left  the  noisy  scene. 

XVIII 

Once  more  he  crossed  the  boundless  main, 
His  native  land  he  sought  again. 
He  toiled,  he  strove,  with  earnest  men — 
For  years  he  strove,  but  all  in  vain. 

Balked  in  Life's  uncertain  game, 
Back  to  the  desert  lands  he  came. 

A  bitter  grief  was  his,  brave  friends — 
The  keen  pangs  of  a  baffled  man 
Who  stakes  his  life  for  dazzling  ends, 
Nor  yet  achieves  the  glowing  plan. 

'        -* 

From  his  restless,  moody  boyhood  days 

Fame  had  been,  had  been  his  constant  dream. 

While   others   wrought  their   idle  plays, 

He  strolled  beside  some  sombre  stream 

In  gloomy  thought,  with  absent  air, 

Depicting  in  his  burning  brain 

Broad   fields  illumed  with  Battle's  glare, 

And  swept  with  Death's  relentless  rain, 

And   rocking   'neath  the   earthquake  tread 

Of  charging  hosts,  the  deaf'ning  roar 

Of  thund'ring  guns,  while  sunlight  shed 

A  spectral  splendor  o'er  the  scene  of  gore. 

And   foremost   'mong  the  reckless   riders  there, 

Guiding  the  van  with  impetuous  mien, 

And  wrestling  triumph  from  despair, 

His  own  wild  form  was  grandly  seen. 

And  then  he  dreamed  of  awful  cheers, 

The  foe's  imposing  might  o'er  thrown; 

Applause  of  millions  in  their  joyous  tears, 

And  Fame's  unfading  laurels  all  his  own. 

And  o'er  and  o'er  this  dream  he  dreamed; 

As  time  waned  on  from  year  to  year, 

Such  dazzling  glory  farther  seemed 

At  'every  step,   until  a  fear 

O'ercame  him — faith  was   lost,   and   Pride 

Despised  the  deeds  that  he  had  done — 

In  high  contempt  it  flung  aside 

The  humble  chaplets  he  had  won ; 

Proud   efforts   failed;    misfortunes   came 

That  broke  his  once  imperial  will; 

In  clouds  they  came,  till  previous  ill 

Seemed  easy,  light  and  tame; 

The  wine  cup  then!   and  utter  shame. 


ON    PRAIRIK  S    WII.P  63 

Tis   I  loll   to   tVol   within   the  mind 

Aspirins  traits  that  lead  to  fame, 

And  yet  be  fettered  and  confined 

in  some  base  field  prescribed  and  tame, 

rondi'innod  to  paths  of  servile  shame, 

When   had    hiph    Fortune   been   more  kind, 

Not   in  the  bondage   of  routine 

Had  ardor  lost  its  precious  flame, 

Hut   earth  had   trembled  at  your  name, 

And  wreathed  it  round  with  golden  sheen. 

O  had  there  dawned  some  fearful  strife 

To  strew  the  land  with  martial  clay, 

How  grandly  had  he  bartered  life 

To  lead  on  some  immortal  day. 

Whine   o'er   woes,   vain   amorous   crew — 

Make  shrines  and  bow  to  sirens  fair; 

In  ecstasy  muse  of  eyes  of  blue, 

Of  bosoms  white  as  Sierra  snows, 

And    peerless  forms  beyond  compare, 

( In  rival  arms  to  soon  repose 

Till  roused  by  cold  neglect  and  care); 

Lament  that  charms  so  warmly  sought 

Should  bless  or  curse  some  taunting  foe; 

In  savage  wrath  upbraid  a  lot 

That  Heaven  ne'er  designed  for  woe — 

But  ah!   till  ye  know  the  racking  throes 

That  baffled  ambition  feels 

Talk  not  of  grief.     Love's  passion  grows 

Dead  with  time;  a  slight  wound  heals, 

But  hopeless,  burning  thirst  for  fame 

Is  quenched  alone  with  a  lifeless  frame. 

O  vanity  supreme!  since  mortal  fame 
Is  naught  but  vanishing  human  breath; 
Who  wins  at  last,  exults,  and  then — 

ept  away  by  conquering  Death. 
Is  spoken  of  by  perishing  creatures — men, 
And,  for  a  time,  his  mighty  name 
Appears  in  books  that  moths  consume, 
And   he — a  bunch  of  dust  within  a  tomb. 

Kings  have  died  and  left  no  trace  behind — 
Xo  proud  memorial,  trophy,  tale; 
Their  fame  was  lost  upon  the  desert  wind; 
Their  dust  was  strewn  on  wintry  gale. 

The  dying  serf,  with   final  moan, 

Leaves  a  petty  sum  to  buy  a  stone. 

The  wind  and  rain  will  wear  his  name  away, 

And  busy  worms  achieve  his  swift  decay. 

Though  poor  his  life,  and  mean  his  lot, 


64  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

He  hates  to  feel  he'll  ever  be  forgot. 

Presumptuous   man!    obscure   or   great, 

Oblivion  is  thy  final  fate. 

So  deemed  the  desert  sage.    He  chose  to  die, 

And  pierce  the  mysteries  of  the  grave, 

Nor  cared  what  solemn  fate  might  lie 

Beyond  Death's  weird  and  silent  wave. 

No  idle  fable  checked  his  soaring  thought; 

No  scroll,  with  doubt  or  folly  sealed, 

To  prophecy  a  mystic   lot 

Majestic  Nature  ne'er  revealed. 

Content  he  left  their  varied  creeds 

To  those  who  bow  to  Superstition's  wiles, 

Or  cloak  in  cant  their  selfish  deeds, 

Or  secret  woo  soft  Pleasure's  smiles. 

His  wasted  life  a  curse  had  grown. 

Death  was  the  surgery  he  chose 

To  cure  its  ills.     No  coward  moan 

Escaped  his  lips  at  thought  of  vile  repose; 

No  shudder  marked  the  deed  a  gloomy  crime 

To  mar  eternities  of  after  time; 

Sternly  and  calmly  he  cast  the  sum 

Of  existence — the  dismal  balance  drew, 

Whereat  Conscience'  lips  were  dumb, 

Or  owned  the  dreadful  reckoning  true. 

Annihilation   was  his   trust, 

His  life  is  gone,  his  form  is  dust. 

Where  flows  yon  stream  in  pomp  sublime, 

He  moulders  to  the  final  time. 

Man's  life  is  but  a  fleeting  breath; 

Ambition's  madness  ends  in  death. 


!• 


SITTING  BULL 
(TatnnL-n    Yotomko) 

In  armed  resistance  to  arrest,  Sitting  Bull  was  killed  at  his  camp  on  Grand  River,  December  15, 
1890.     Many  Indians  and  whites  were  killed. 


.'"•. 

•••      *  v  i  jj  - 


BORDER    OF    THE    UNDERWORLD  65 

I'.ORDKK  OF  TIIK   rXDKK  WOULD 

[The  grim  cycle  of  Humanity — Industry,  Prosperity,  Over- 
population, War,  Pestilence  and  Famine.  This  is  Nature's 
law.  Man  cannot  change  it.  Human  life  is  a  brutal  tragedy.] 

You  seem  so  sad  when  half  alone. 
When  you  do  not  deem  me  nigh, 
You   bow   your  weary  head  and   sigh, 
As  though  some  shadow  you  deny 
Across  your  path  were  thrown. 
You  have  some  grief  you  will  not  own. 
Your  red   lips  speak  in  joyous  tone, 
Yet  in  your  very  smile  I  see 
Some    evil    things    that    should    not    be — 
Some  subtle   signs   you  seek  to  hide — 
The  haughtiness  of  wounded  pride, 
And  bitterness  with  pain  allied. 
Sometimes  the  slightest  things  you  say 
Seem  darkened  by  some  .mystic  doom. 
Sometimes  your  lightest  words  convey 
A  nameless  sense  of  weighty  gloom 
That  jesting  will  not  drive  away; 
And  ever  when   your  wit's   in   play 
You  well  nigh  mar  your  morning  bloom, 
Such  keen,   sarcastic  things  you  say. 

You  need  not  speak — you  cannot  screen 
What  duller  eyes  than  mine  have  seen. 
Apparent  is  to  any  gaze 
The  deadly  bane  of  your  young  days. 
In   sportive  mood  Fate  fashioned  you. 
Fate  made  you  fair  as  poets  claim 
Soft  Venus  was  when  earth  was  new. 
Such  beauty  gives  you  dang'rous  fame. 
Fate  gave  to  you  such  lustrous  eyes 
I  first  beheld  you  with  surprise, 
And  wondered  if  some  wayward  queen 
Arrayed   in  this  your  vesture  mean, 
Did  not  wander  in  disguise. 

A  thousand  charms  Fate  gave  to  you 

As  lavish  as  the  summer's  dew, 

With  impulse  warm  and  florid  health, 

And  pride  that  barely  bends  by  stealth, 

And  grandly  beautified  the  whole 

With  gifts  of  mind,  heroic  soul. 

Then  far  away  the  demon  stole, 

But  did  not  crown  these  gifts  with  wealth. 

What  solace  find  you  in  such  grace? 
In  all  these  givings  can  you  trace 


66  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

The  semblance  of  a  motive  kind? 
Cast  away  your  teachings   blind 
And  question  with  undaunted  mind. 
Fair  as  the  stars  of  Fashion's  sphere, 
Lo!  you  sit  unhonored  here. 
Who  comes  to  pay  you  homage  sweet 
With   deference,   impressive  mien? 
A  suppliant  upon  the  scene; 
With  tender  vows   in  phrases  meet? 
With  knightly  air,  demeanor  chaste? 
Tendering  jewels  at  your  feet; 
Viewing  as  naught  his  royal  waste, 
So  you  bid  him  no  more  entreat, 
Smile  assent  to  his  am'rous  claim, 
Receive  his  love  and  gems  aflame — 
And  haughtily  wear  his  name? 

None   come;    but  when  you   idly  dream 
Beside  your   lattice — barely   seem 
Observant  of  the  throngs  you  view, 
Coarse  lechers  fix  their  gaze  on  you 
As  they  lounge  past  from  fetid  lairs, 
And  ponder  on  what  common  snares 
May  best  achieve  your  fearful  ill. 
They  leer  upon  you,  foul  with  lust, 
Until   their  red   eyes  feast  their  fill, 
And  sate  you  with  disgust. 
You  cannot   stir  for  secret  foes; 
The  dreary  shadow  of  repose 
That  Fate  yet  leaves  you  they  would  slay. 
They  weave  their  toils  around  your  way 
As  hunters  cast  their  nets  for  prey. 
Their  smiles  are  false,  their  vows  are  lies; 
The   honeyed   things   they   sometimes   say 
Are  Hell's  suggestions  in  disguise; 
There  are  no  fiends  more  base  than  they — 
Your  awful  ruin  is  their  prize. 
Such  is  the  fruit  your  beauty  bears; 
It  girds  you  round  about  with  snares. 

Not  so  does  Fortune  deal  with  all. 
Others   to   stately   homes   are   born; 
On  pleasant  paths  their  footsteps  fall, 
From  rosy  flush  of  childhood's  morn 
Till  autumn  of  their  stormless  days 
Fades  out  like  sunset's  dying  blaze. 
This  life  to  them  is  all  in  all. 
Affection  girds  them  like  a  wall, 
And  ready  at  their  languid  call 
Are  all  the  joys  that  mortals  win 
From  love  and  luxury  and  sin. 
They  have  a  surfeit  of  the  bliss 


BORDER    OF    THE    UNDERWORLD  67 

For  which  you   starve — what  they   reject, 
If  yours,  eVn   in  a  den  like  this, 
Would   make  your  glowing  eyes  reflect 
So  deep  a  joy  from  out  your  soul 
That  I  might  read  them  like  a  scroll; 
Ay,  tell  you,  ere  you  spake  a  word, 
That  not  in   vain  had  been  deferred 
Your  thousand  hopes — that  not  in  vain 
Had  Vice's  baubles  been  forsworn, 
Or  poverty  and  secret  pain 
With  iron  fortitude  been  borne. 
But  such,  alas!   is  not  to  be. 
Vex  not  your  soul  with  airy  schemes—- 
In vain  you  build  your  gorgeous  dreams — 
You  cannot  alter  Fate's  decree. 

A  man  may  rise,  if  born  obscure — 

May  summon  courage  to  endure 

The  world's  rebuffs;   wrench  off  the  heel 

Of  Poverty  from   prostrate  neck — 

May  rear  his  fortunes  on  the  wreck 

Of  other's  hopes,  and  fiercely  feel 

A  thrill  of  vengeance  in  their  woe, 

And  in  the  stern  strife  a  lofty  glow 

Of  exultation  and  of  pride 

That  sweeps  Adversity  aside, 

And  conquers,  step  by  step,  a  way 

Through  adverse  Fortune's  thick  array 

Of  bitter  woes,  to  all  he  craves 

That  gold  confers  or  Honor  yields. 

His  very  anguish  swiftly  paves 

The  rugged  way  to  grandest  fields, 

Lending  a  vigor  to  his  blows 

That  only  desperation  knows. 

All  before  him  are  his  foes. 

With  haughty  hate  he  scorns  repose, 

And  strikes  as  though  his  fierce  strokes  fell, 

Not  alone  to  reach  his  goal, 

But  for  life — his  very  soul — 

For  earth  itself,  for  if  he  fail, 

Not  heartless  crowds  will   hear  his  wail; 

The  grave  will  close  his  gloomy   tale, 

And  desert  winds  will  sing  his  knell — 

He  will  perish  or  prevail. 

Thus  nerved,  he  wrests  away  his  prize. 

But  woman  born  to  station  low, 

Though  fair  as  Juno,  and  as  wise 

As    Pallas   chaste — how   shall   she   rise? 

Too  oft  her  dreary  option  lies 

Between  a  hovel  and  a  hell. 

You  were  not  born  to  be  delight 


68  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Of  some  low  churl  of  rude  command 
And  sudden  rage,  whose  brutal  hand 
Would  be  more  often  raised  to  smite 
Than  reached  in  toil  for  thine  and  thee; 
Whose  hated  home  would  only  be 
A  prison  vile,  where  toil  and  tears 
Would  waste  away  the  mournful  years, 
And   sickness,   misery   and   pain, 
And  pinching  want  alone  would  reign. 
You  would  not  wish  with  pangs  to  bear 
Fair  children  from  his  loathed  embrace, 
To  see  them  pine  and  wither  there, 
Or  thrive  in  discord  and  disgrace, 
Foredoomed  in  after  years  to  rot 
In  brothel  hives  or  prison  cells. 
Abhor  indeed   your  present  lot, 
But  even  Hell  hath    .deeper  hells. 
Far   better  quaff   at   Lethe   now, 
Die  ere  another  sun  arise, 
With  beauty  twined  upon  your  brow, 
And  Aidenii's  light  within  your  eyes, 
And  warm  within  your  purple  veins 
The  blood  of  youth,  and  on  your  cheek 
The  florid  freshness   of  the  rose, 
Then  wear  accurst  the  galling  chains 
That  love  and  poverty  impose. 

Two  thousand  years  since  Christ  was  born 
The   money-kings   his  temples   hold; 
His  gentle  rules  they  laugh  to  scorn, 
And  buy  his  priests  with  tainted  gold. 
Men  drudge  and  starve  in  dumb  distress, 
And  human  sorrow  is  no  less. 

Our  planet  swarms  with  weary  slaves. 
Shall  yet  these  hapless  hordes  increase? 
What  millions  pine  for  peaceful  graves; 
In  death  alone  find  swift  release 
From  ceaseless  toils  and  endless  care; 
From  rayless,  hopeless,  black  despair. 
The  lords  of  gold,  in  happy  scenes, 
Behold  it  all  with  stony  gaze. 
They  know  what  this  dilemma  means. 
It  wakes  in  them  no  keen  remorse. 
They  see  these  hordes  tread  rueful  ways — 
In  toil   exhaust  their  vital   force 
To  lengthen  out  each  vampire's  days. 
They  view  it  all  with  fulsome  praise, 
And  welcome  Mammon's  gladsome  cry: 
"Let  slaves  increase!    O  multiply 
That  I  may  golden  harvests  reap; 
That  human  flesh  may  be  more  cheap. 


BORDKR    OF    Till:    UNDERWORLD  69 

L«  t    holy   maxims  be  instilled. 
How  blest  is  lovr- — arise  and  wed. 
O  blessings  crown  each  nuptial  bed. 
Increase   in   kind;    let  earth   be  filled 
With  mobs  of  paupers  needing  bread. 
Then  cheaper  will  their  toil  be  sold, 
And  mightier  the  sway  of  Gold." 

Tis  passion  vile  that  reigns — controls. 
What  though  we  term  it  love  or  shame? 
How  soothing  to  their   dainty   souls 
To  dignify  with  happy  name — 
Parade  their  shams   in  light  of  day, 
Despise  poor  weakness  gone   estray, 
Then  pose  in  purity  supreme — 
In  snowy  garb — and  almost  dream 
They  are  the  spotless  things  they  seem. 
And  wedlock,  too — ah!   what  of  this? 
The  captive  knight  is  wan  with  care. 
His  pay — a  cold  embrace  and  lifeless  kiss, 
And  charms  that  time  will  soon  impair; 
And  if  ambition  fires  his  brain, 
And  fame  hath  been  his  lofty  goal, 
Dream  not  these  glorious  dreams  again, 
To  fret  in  vain  a  fevered  soul; 
But,  like  a  giant  in  affray, 
Cast  prostrate  in  his  shame, 
Behold  a   future  fade  away — 
What  hath  a  slave  to  do  with  fame? 
Wild   independence,   fame,  are   gone. 
Call  you  such  lot  a  happy  one? 
'Tis   bondage   vile,  yet   Fate  ordains 
That  silence  hide  his   inward  pains. 
He  hath  no  ground  to  build  upon; 
With   gloomy   mind   he   grovels   on, 
And  Genius  pines  in  hated  chains. 
When  peerless  youth  is  free  of  woe, 
Each  sunny  hour  enthroned  in  bliss, 
How  can  it  be  that  fools  will  throw 
Its  royal  glories  down  for  this? 

• 

Yon  skies  allure  with  many  a  star. 
Because  they  shine  so  wondrous  fair, 
Ask  not  why  ills  and  sorrows  are; 
Because  yon  wave,  that  seems  a  sea, 
Lies  beauteous  'neath  a  summer  moon, 
Ask  not  why  griefs  are  thine  so  soon; 
Ask  not  why  earth,  alas!    should  be. 
Men  grope  in  books  to  find  a  Hell. 
Methinks  our  world  should  answer  well. 
Since  first  it  wheeled  with  motion  slow, 
Then  sought  its  orbit  o'er  the  skies, 


70  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

It's  heard  but  sounds  of  pain   arise — 

This   breeding  ground   of   mortal   woe. 

And  still  they  rise,   and  ever   must. 

If  some  wild   planet,   off  its   course, 

Should  shiver  earth  with  fearful  force; 

Ay,  blow  its  fabric  into  dust, 

Some  joys  would  end — as  end  they  must; 

Vast  misery  would  cease  to  be, 

Nor  harm  be  done  to  you  or  me. 

To  brood  in  thought  gives  only  grief; 

These  countless  ills  defy  relief. 

There  are  wise  men  explain  it  all — 

Why  most  shall  hunger,  some  shall  feast; 

Why  pain  is  good  for  man  and  beast, 

Why  sorrows  come,  disasters  fall. 

These  wise  men  all  fine  linen  wear, 

Their  coaches  roll  at  slightest  call; 

They  fatten  on  a  prince's  fare. 

The  riddle  dark  to  them  is  clear, 

They  find  this  world  a  pleasant  place, 

And  little  mourn  that  combats  drear, 

Exhaustive   toils,  privations — place 

Deep  seams  across  the  poor  man's  face. 

Drudge!    starve!    seek  not   to   understand, 

Lest   well-fed    sages   coldly    frown. 

Each  one — when  dead — will  wear  a  crown; 

Yea,  strike  a  harp  with  joyous  hand 

In   some  delightful   better    land. 

If  here  he   pines  on  slavish  fare, 

He'll  need   no   food  or  feasting  there. 

O  blind  and  silly  sons  of  earth, 

Such  prate  should  wake  a  dead  man's  mirth. 

And  Woman's  fate?     In  fear  and  pain 

To  propagate;  to  weep  in  vain 

As  olden  sorrows  come  again. 

Death  brings  the  fallen  serf  release 
From  frantic  efforts  but  to  live. 
Men  multiply  as  foods  decrease, 
All  crave  what  few  may  freely  give. 
Excuse,  explain,  spin  fairy  tales, 
Denounce  this  awful  creed  of  gloom; 
The  cunning  explanation  fails — 
All  merciless  this  race's  doom. 

Pauline,  these  thoughts  may  not  be  well 
For  such  as  you  who  honor  laws 
That  millions  hail  with  fond  applause; 
For  you,  who  yet  may  trembling  pause 
Upon  the  threshold  of  a  hell. 
When  life  presents  no  prize  to  win, 
'Tis   desperation   drives  to  sin. 


BORDER    OF    THE    UNDERWORLD  71 

And,  glamoured  o'er  with  Fancy's  hues, 

What  bright  regalia  sin  assumes; 

How  warm  and  wayward  youth  imbues 

The  charnel  scene  with  summer  blooms, 

O'erlooks  each  snare,  and  but  beholds 

Divinest  joy  where  Pain  unfolds 

Its  hydra  fangs  or  Woe  consumes. 

There  is  a   most  delicious   thrill 

In  coy  Temptation's  soft  approach; 

It  does  not  wake  the  angry  will 

With  bold,  free  strides, 

But  steals  its  course  with  matchless  skill, 

As  water  glides. 

In  dainty  whispers  does  it  broach 

The  darkest  deed,  appearing  still 

In   winning  guise. 

It  fascinates  like  serpent's  eyes, 

And  lulls  the  senses  like  a,  dream. 

The  blackest  crimes  bewitching  seem 

Beneath  the  magic  of  its  spell; 

It  lures  the  wayward  thoughts  to  dwell 

Where'er  it  choose,  with  subtlest  art; 

Stealthily   it   moulds  the  heart 

To  wild  desires;   it  stills  the  pain 

That  Conscience  gives;   a  drowsy  brain  , 

Applauds  the  deed  and  loosens  rein — 

Or,  with  mad,  with  frantic  haste, 

Awakes  to  horrors  half  embraced; 

And  seeks  supremacy  again. 

How  vain  are  Wisdom's  mandates  cold, 

The  voice  of  precept  or  of  creed ; 

How  vain  example  may  unfold 

Its   logic  stern,  or  Honor  burn 

With  lofty  zeal  to  intercede; 

How  passing  vain   in   Beauty's   need 

Are  all  prevailing  powers  of  good, 

If  but  she  list  in  tacit  mood 

To  fell  Temptation's  winsome  call, 

And   circumstance  approve   her   fall. 

It  little  recks  who  woos  her  then — 

Full  soon  she  wails  o'er  what  hath  been. 

From   gardens  cool   a   perfume  floats 
On  wand'ring  winds  of  summer  night, 
And   airy  Music's  mellow  notes 
Breathe  intimations  of  delight. 
How  Folly  sports  in  guise  of  Love;., 
The  reckless  crowds  in  joyance  rove 
Where  gaiety  and  restless  dance 
Obscure  each  peril's  rueful  sign, 
Till  swift  in  Ruin's  fearful  trance 


72  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

The  victim  falls,  nor  heeds  the  cost — 
Henceforth   a  fated  thing   of  chance — 
To  peace,   to  joy,   forever   lost. 
The  fairest  one  is  noblest  game. 
The  roue  boasts  his  deeds  of  shame. 
Anon,  with  Hymen's  honors  blest, 
A  social  autocrat  he  blooms. 
He  scourges  Vice,  and  well  assumes, 
The  attributes  he  ne'er  possessed. 
He  makes  the  laws  that  rudely  deal 
With  those  he  threw  beneath  his  heel. 

His   former  prey,  for   daily  bread, 
Her  health,  her  soul,  her  beauty  sells. 

.  She  roams  the  pave  with  weary  tread, 
Or  lingers  in  her  noisy  hells. 
Then   hypocrites    in   menace    frown — 
They  rail  of  her,  with  fierce  demand, 
Till  Law  grows  wroth  and  smites  her  down, 
And  wrings  the  wages  from  her  hand. 
Then  back  it  drives  her  to  her  den 
To  earn  the  gold    'twill   take   again. 
O  Sham!    with  banners  white  unfurled, 
Thy  kingdom  is  the  peopled  world. 
What  veils  thy  myrmidons  employ! 
Mock  Purity,  with  mien  of  scorn, 
Hastes  by  the  Magdalen  forlorn, 
Then  revels  in  hymeneal  joy — 
A  future  Magdalen  is  born. 
Her  pathway  teems  with  gilded  snares. 
In    sadness   Byron's   muse   declares: 

"If  man  to  man  is  oft  unjust, 
To  Woman  he  is  ever  so." 
Her  gentle  nature  bids  her  trust, 
And   passion   brings   her   overthrow. 

"Love  is  lust,  friendship  all  deceit, 
Smiles  hypocrisy  and  life  a  cheat." 
If  too  severe,  such  thoughts  are  meet 
To  guide  aright  thy  wand'ring  feet. 
Guard  well  thy  steps  and  watch  alway — 
Pure  love,  too  oft,  is  Passion's  prey. 

To  thine  own  self,  Pauline,  be  true. 
Ah!    deem  not  vice,  so  fair  to  view, 
The  maze  of  joy  it  seems  to  you. 
Would  you  know  Delilah's  round? 
In  fear  she  roves  Destruction's  ground. 
Pale  Horror  beards  her  face  to  face; 
Before  her  yawns  a  gulf  of  wrath; 
Behind?     a   desolated  path 
Her  feet  can  never  more  retrace. 
Disastrous  venom  fills  her  veins, 


KORDKK    OF    THE    UN  D  K  R  WORLD  73 

To   mock   the   mirth    she  madly   feigns. 

All  scenes  are  by  ln-r  step  defiled. 

Not   our  pure  joy  remains  her  own. 

She  moves  through  all  the  world  alone, 

Abhorred,  avoided,  and   reviled. 

Her  game  is  death — she  slays  for  bread. 

The  beauty  Fate  first  formed  her  in 

Is  turned   to  poison,  treachery  and  sin. 

She  goes  her  way  with  stealthy  tread, 

To  tempt  the  young,  the  strong,  the  bold. 

As  well  seek  they  a  cobra's  fold. 

She  lures  them  on;  Death  lingers  nigh; 

She  sends   them   forth — anon  to  die. 

This  is  her  trade— it  is  to  kill; 

She  cannot  change  it  if  she  will. 

She  was  not  spared;  why  should  she  spare? 

Who   taught    to   her    Pollution's    snare? 

Let    none   declare 

The  canting  tale  of  Pity's  lie. 

Let  censure   sleep. 

Does  Nature  stay  the  wrathful  gales 

Because  a  shattered  vessel  sails 

Upon  the  deep? 

Or  swift  withhold  the  wasteful  rain 

At  day's  high  noon, 

Because  the  fields  with  level   grain 

Are  thickly  strewn? 

Or  turn  away   the  lava  tide 

That  hisses  down  the  mountain  side, 

Because  a  city  blocks  its  course? 

When    far    unrolls   the   whirlwind's   force, 

What   power   heeds  if  ills  betide? 

WThen  might  supreme  deigns  not  to  spare, 

Why  should  a  ruined  wretch  forbear? 

You  start — I  thought  you  scarce  could  know 

The  full  expanse  of  human  woe. 

These   things  to  you  are  deeply  strange, 

Their  drift  you  do  not  comprehend; 

I  see  your  cheek's  rich  color  change, 

And   fast   its  pink  and  crimson  blend 

With  ashy  white;  it  seems  to  burn, 

E'en  when  most  pale,  with  a  vague  heat, 

As  though  your  pulse  with  fever  beat. 

Much  yet,  fair  girl,  have  you  to  learn. 

Of  you  I  dreamed — half  drunk  you  reeled 
By  night  along  a  crowded  pave; 
The  glare  of  myriad  lights  revealed 
Your  wasted  lineaments,  and  gave 
Their  ghastly  outlines  such  a  mien 
Of  utter  woe,  I  thought  the  grave 


74  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Might  well  have  snatched  you  from  the  scene 
As  one  rebelling  from  Death's  sleep. 
Your  swollen  eyes   refused  to  weep, 
And  yet  your  bitter  soul  o'erflowed 
With  solemn  griefs;  doomed  to  reap 
The  baleful  harvest  you  had  sowed, 
You  staggered  on.    Men  passed  you  by 
With  cruel  jest,  with  laughter  rude; 
The  pure  shunned  you;   every  eye, 
With  touch  of  pity  unsubdued, 
Stared  heartless  insolence  and  scorn. 
Crushed,  abashed,  maddened,  spurned,  forlorn 
The  loathsome  wreck  of  former  days, 
You  stole  from  out  the  street's  red  blaze, 
And  crouched  where  deepest  night  had  fled, 
Shamed  e'en  when  shame  itself  was  dead. 

Ah,  sweet  Pauline,  you  cannot  guess 
The  horrors  of  a  woman's  fall. 
There  is  no  language  can  express 
The  anguish  and  wild  wretchedness 
That  ceaselessly  her  soul  appall. 
Her  revel  bowl  is  brimmed  with  gall; 
It  cannot  quench  her  deep  despair. 
The  roses  twined  amid  her  hair 
The  odors  of  the  grave  exhale; 
The  hollow  mirth  she  seems  to   share 
But  mocks  her  spirit's  inward  wail, 
And  spectres  stalk  amidst  the  air 
While  loud  her  merriments  prevail. 

What  wild,  lone  path  to  you  remains, 
Where  neither  Penury  enchains 
With  fetters  cold,  nor  Shame's  hot  breath 
Scathes  the  broad  road  that  winds  to  death? 
Rise  on  your  nature,  fierce  to  rend. 
Bid  every  tender  instinct  bend 
To  god-like  Reason's  iron  sway; 
Bid  every  warm  impulse  be  bred 
To  cool   distrust  or  scorn   instead. 
Of  Friendship's  tawdry  smiles  beware. 
Crush  Love  and  Pity  ere  they  bear 
Their  sweet   and  unavailing  fruit. 
For  foes  and  treachery  prepare. 
Know  Man,  full  oft,  a  lustful  brute 
Whose  fading  spark  of  fire  divine 
Through  bestial  passion  scarce  can  shine; 
And  earth  a  ruthless  battle  ground 
Where  Might  and  Wrong  so  oft  are  found 
Arrayed  against  the  frail  and  weak; 
Henceforward  let  your  fair  lips  speak 
But  cold,   calm   words,  nor  deign  to  seek 


BORDER    OF    THE    UNDERWORLD  75 

A  sympathy  your  sex  e'er  craves, 

Which  won,  transforms  them  soon  to  slaves; 

Dream  not  of  peace,  hope  not  to  gain 

A  single  joy  from  all  your  pain; 

I'ndaunted  by  the  baser  crowd, 

I'n tainted  by  Corruption's  gold; 

I'nloving  and  unloved,  stern,  proud, 

Selfish,  untempted  and  unsold, 

Wear  the  melancholy  years  away, 

And  at  the  close  of  Life's  brief  day 

Leave  not  upon  this  crowded  sphere 

One  hapless  child  to  war  with  Fate; 

To  tread  alone  some  pathway  drear, 

To  cringe  to  those  of  high  estate — 

Be  trampled  on  by  cruel  feet, 

Atoning  for  the  vain  delight 

That  you  have  won  in  moments  bright 

From  Love's  unhappy,  idle  cheat. 

Adieu,   Pauline,   the   purple   sea 
Will  bear  no  lover  back  to  thee. 


76  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

THE  MAKCH  OF  ORELLANA 

[Roaming  the  tropical  wilds  of  Brazil  in  quest  of  the  city 
of  the  Amazon  Queen,  "with  houses  and  temples  roofed  with 
gold,"  Orellana  and  his  knights  discovered  the  Amazon 'River. 
Most  of  the  expedition  perished.] 

Wandering  stars,  in  blackness  of  darkness  forever. — Jude. 

I 

Spain  sends  a  host  of  heroes  forth — 
A  galaxy  of  peerless  brave, 
A  nation's  pride — of  warlike  worth — 
Who  fear  no  waste  of  Ocean's  wave. 
A  martial   constellation  they, 
To  whom  the  world  becomes  a  prey — 
Their  deeds  are  in  all  regions  told — 
Cortez,   Pizarro,   Alvarado  bold, 
Cordova,  and — immortal  name — 
Arcturus  of  the  starry  fold — 
Columbus  of  eternal  fame. 

With  shining  shield  and  glittering  lance 
Mount,  cavaliers!    the  war  steeds  prance, 
The  trumpets  peal;  once  more  advance. 

When  Europe's  knights  in  splendor  rode 
To  war  with  Paynim  chivalry, 
Disdaining  pleasures,  choice  abode — 
All  dainty  fare  on  men  bestowed; 
The  fruits  of  vine  and  vernal  tree; 
For  them  in  vain  the  nectar  flowed, 
And  luscious  wines  of  Araby. 
They  crossed  the  coasts  of  distant  sea, 
Passed  mountains  high  and  burning  lands, 
To  battle  o'er  the  Syrian  sands. 
Fair  girls  they  saw  but  heeded  not; 
Temptations  lined  their  joyless  way; 
They  glanced  ahead  and  lingered  not. 
Straight  on  they  rode  in  solemn  thought. 
A  purpose  moved  them  day  by  day; 
It  bore  them  on  to  mighty  fray. 
Yet  each  one  left  in  castle  hall 
A  lady  fair  to  pray  for  all. 
Afar  the  knight  assailed  his   foes, 
At  home  the  lady's  orisons  arose, 
,And  if  he  fell  Love  found  her  true; 
To  convent  grey  she  soon  withdrew, 
And  wistful   men  saw  her  no  more; 
No  former  scene  her  presence  knew, 
Her    sorrow   lived    in   tournay   lore. 
Which  most  allures — love,  wealth  or  fame? 


MARCH    OF    ORELLANA  77 

Sometimes  I  think  that  love  is  best, 

Since  life's  achievements  all  are  tame 

When  that  we  covet  is  possessed. 

If  Woman's  rosy  lips  be  pressed, 

And  love  be  sworn  upon  a  shrine, 

Men  wander  off  in  idle  quest 

Of  other  goddesses  divine — 

As  do-these  moody  knights  of  mine. 

Gold  has  a  spell  to  give  relief 

To  ev'ry  form  of  human  grief. 

A  soldier's  wreath  of  glory  won 

May  disappoint  a  martial  heart 

That  held  its  way  till  all  was  done. 

The  winner  plays  his  haughty  part, 

Disdains  the  things  that  make  life  sweet, 

Then  finds  his  envied  prize  a  cheat. 

But  who  shall  honor  men  who  make 

The  winning  of  a  siren  smile, 

Of  all  their  lives  the  mighty  stake? 

If  love  delight  us  for  a  while, 

Why  let  us  love  till   sated  quite, 

Then  bare  our  blades  for  dauntless  fight, 

To  win  a  spoil  'neath  Fortune's  star, 

Where  Glory — Empire — shine  afar. 

II 

Through  solemn  woods  and  hot  savanna 
Far  winds  the  trail  of  Orellana. 
The  way  so  long,  so  far  the  goal, 
It  tries  Adventure's  utmost  soul. 
Riches,  power,  pleasures,  fame 
Are  staked   upon  this  fearful   game. 
The  Fountain  of  Eternal  Youth 
They  sought  in  vain  in  Land  of  Flowers, 
May  yet  await,   in  very  truth, 
In  this  enchanted  zone  of  ours. 
Though  fiickle,  vain  and  oft  untrue, 
All  noble  knights  pay  homage  due 
To  Woman   in  her  lofty   place. 
They  make  of  love  a  life-long  chase. 
Old  men  muse  not  of  Beauty's  glow, 
Of  lovely  Woman's  tempting  wile; 
Forgot  the  bliss  of  long  ago — 
They  chuckle  o'er  the  golden  pile! 
'Tis  gold  they  love;  they  fall  to  clay, 
And  all  their  gold  is  cast  away. 
With  wealth  immense  and  youth  eternal, 
O  life  would  be  a  joy  supernal! 
The  Fount  of  Youth,  in  ceaseless  play, 
May  gleam  in  forests  on  our  way. 
This  wildest  march,  O  knights,  pursue; 
High  faith  and  valor  bear  us  through. 


78  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

With  wealth  and  empire  proudly  won, 
Orellana's  march  is   done. 
Some  day  we'll  peal  a  glad  hosanna 
At  end  of  trail  of  Orellana. 

Ill 

Brazilian  suns  pierce  not  the  gloom 
That  makes  the  dark  woods  like  a  tomb. 
In  dismal  shades  dull  saurians  creep, 
Or  hid  in  sedges,  feign  to  sleep, 
To  tempt  their  human  prey  to  doom. 
Far  off  is  roar  of  deluge  deep. 
Where  huge,  long  serpents  coil  and  cougar  leaps, 
The  rich-plumed  bird  its  vigil  keeps; 
Where  ornate  floral  splendors  bloom 
The  tapir  crouches  low  and  sleeps. 
The  jungles  spread   in  utter  gloom; 
The  vasty  woods  seem  like  a  tomb. 
All  Christian  scenes,  alas!    are  gone — 
Conquestadors,  we  still  march  on, 
For  nightly  dreams  give  purpose  bold — 
We  revel  in  fierce  hopes  of  gold, 
Since  wealth  is  hid  in  solitudes 
Of  some  remote,  inviolate  scene 
Where  reigns  the  Amazonian  queen. 
Her  soldiers  fierce  are  dazzling  broods 
And  restless  bands  of  warlike  girls; 
In  onset  wild,  intrepid,  bold; 
Their   golden  targes  rimmed  with  pearls, 
Their  battle  spears  of  native  gold; 
An  Inca's  wealth's  in  their  stronghold, 
With  fanes  and  temples  roofed  with  gold. 
There's  naught  mad  avarice  to  foil. 
Thrice  welcome  danger,  trial,  toil, 
To  wrest  away  this  mighty  spoil. 
With  chivalry,  on  bended  knees, 
We'll  woo  these  dames  at  lawless  ease. 
What  think  you,  knights?    Which  mode  will  please? 
High  feats  of  arms  or  hymns  of  love? 
Sweet  passion's  vow   or  martial  skill? 
The  soldier's   wrath  or  lover's  kiss? 
What  shame  these  daughters  fair  to  kill! 
O  starry  spheres  of  skies  above, 
What  men  have  known  a  strife  like  this? 
It  is  Aladdin's  reckless  raid — 
The  strangest  of   all  marches  made. 
Since  life  is  brief,  its  pleasures  tame, 
All  men  aspire  to  leave  behind 
A  memory  to  mortal  kind. 
How  blest  in  age  is  noble  name, 
And  sweet  in  youth  the  voice  of  Fame. 
Proud  Manhood's  prime  disdaias  to  wear 


MARCH   OF   ORELLANA  79 

Some  paltry  laurel — bays  shine  fair 
Because  one  bore   long  years  of  shame, 
Nor  ever  cooled  Ambition's  flame, 
Or  owned  a  craven's  low  despair. 
Defiance  breathe  at  Fortune's  frown — 
\\V11   still  war  on  for  Glory's  crown. 
We  cannot  leave  the  course  we  tread — 
They  who  returned,  alas!   are  dead. 
Fear  not  each  loathsome  leafy  scene, 
Nor  savage  race   that   roves   by  day, 
Nor  brutes  that  prowl  at  eve  for  prey, 
Nor  pythons  huge  that   hiss   unseen, 
Then   steal  upon  our  dang'rous  way. 
All    ills   Espania's   knights   endure 
When  beauty,  wealth  and  fame  allure. 
Brave,  then,  whate'er  may  intervene, 
To  find  this  Amazonian  queen. 

IV 

Heat!    Heat!    Terrific  heat 
Of    burning    equatorial    South! 
Fierce  and  fast  the  Sun's  rays  beat; 
Like  blast  from  fiery  furnace  mouth 
Is   noonday  breeze.     Not  anywhere 
Is  haven  from  this  furnace  air. 
Discomforts    thrive,    but   worst 
Of  daily  ills  is   feverish  thirst. 
This  burnt-up  region  is  accurst. 
Its  gaudy  floral  splendors  raise 
Their  sickly  crests  to  bloom  and  burst. 
Coats  of  mail  like  burnished  silver  shine; 
They  glitter  in  a  long  resplendent  line. 
Tremendous  vines  and  boughs  disport  on  high; 
And  livid  hues  dismay  the  weary  eye. 
The  pools  and  streams  along  our  ways 
Are  fetid  from  the  Sun's  fierce  blaze, 
And  scattered  o'er  with  greenish  slime 
On  which  abhorrent  vegetations  fall. 
Beneath,   enormous   reptiles  crawl, 
And  hideous  things  of  torrid  clime. 
These    rueful    ills    no    hearts    appall. 
Spain's  cavaliers  are  knights  indeed, 
They  fear  no  foes  that  haunt  their  course; 
They  war  for  Gold  and  Glory's  meed, 
And  move  to  fray   with   restless  force.  - 
Far  better,  knights,  to  fight  and  fail- 
Ay,  perish  on  the  path  we  tread, 
Than  turn  us  back  with  lowered  head, 
With  shattered  dreams  and  visions  fled, 
In  slothful  ease  henceforth  to  wail. 
With    fearless    hearts    face   any    scene 
To  find  this  Amazonian  Queen. 


80  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Thirst  that  burns  and  hunger,  too — 
We  careless  brave  such   ordeals   through. 
In  crucial   test   each   knight   is  true. 
With  vigils,  weariness,  and  sleepless  hours 
We  meet  mad  Nature's  frantic  powers. 
Though  hurricanes  o'ersweep  our  way 
To  rend  the  world  in  savage  play, 
We  sternly  keep  our  goal  in  view. 
Whate'er  betides,  this  be  the  tale: 
We  greatly  win  or  greatly  fail. 

V 

Delicious  halt  last  eve  was  made 
'Mong  ruined  walls  of  some  great  town 
Where  human  pomp  was  once  displayed — 
Some  royal  place  of  old  renown, 
Built  long  ago  by  race  forgot, 
Where  men  with  wondrous  skill  had  wrought. 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  giant  woods 
The  ruins  lay,  with  forests  overgrown — 
In  solitude  of  solitudes — 
Stones  of  colossal  size,  blocks 
Of  smoothly  chiseled  adamantine  rocks 
Lay  in  confusion  there — 
Marble,  granite,  chalcedonies  fair — 
And  monstrous  trees  up  rose  in  air, 
First  forcing  way  through  floors  of  stone 
Of  massive  and  tremendous  weight; 
Age-old  acqueducts  in  shattered  state, 
Gave  precious  water,  trickling  through, 
Forming  in  a  deep,  gigantic  pool 
Of  fluid — limpid,  pure  and  cool. 
In  peace  we  camped  where  gardens  wide 
Nigh  o'ercome  by  wilderness  of  weeds, 
Bore  luscious  fruits  beyond  our  needs. 
Rank,    poisonous    vegetation   fought 
Against  the  bounties   of  that  lonely  spot. 
This  capital  of  other  days, 
Once  home  of  Art  and  seat  of  power, 
Metropolis   that   baffled   praise, 
Was  now,  all  round,   Destruction's  dower. 
Stupendous  ruins  caused  amaze — 
Fallen   rampart,    castle,    temple,    tower. 

Where  stately  palm,  bamboo  and  rubber  tree 
Round  glassy  pools  gave  welcome  shade, 
Were  water-lilies  blooming  undismayed; 
They  charmed  the  eye  that  lingered  lovingly. 
Where  gigantic  trees  hang  thick  with  vines 
Of  vasty  size,  what  wealth  of  color  shines! 
We  halted  there,  where  shade  and  rest, 
And  countless  fruits,  and   shelter  blessed. 
Thrice  well  we  slept,  like  chevaliers 
Unmoved  by  mortal   hopes   and   fears. 


MARCH    OF    ORELLANA  81 

Because  they  found  in  rubbish  heap 
Some  dingy  tools  of  beaten  gold, 
Three  knights  resolved  a  vow  to  keep 
In   that  remote  and  wild   stronghold — 
With  maddened  zeal,  half  crazed  for  gold, 
(  Which  they  believed  might  linger  yet 
In   hidden   vaults   and   coffers  deep) 
This  ancient  spoil  they  swore  to  get, 
With  vows  and  prayers  and  oaths  intense, 
If  ne'er  again  they  wandered  thence. 
To  every  foe   and  peril   blind, 
These  crazy  knights  remained  behind. 
Vain,  foolish  men!   'tis  braver,  knights, 
To  struggle  on  through  woodlands  far; 
Through  swamp,  morass,  o'er  flooded  bar, 
To  distant  scenes   of  gay  delights 
Where  Amazonia's  daughters  are; 
Wine  and  gold  and  princely  fare 
Await  the  gallant  knights  who  dare. 
We'll  hasten  on,  from  sun  to  sun, 
Till  Orellana's  march  is  done. 

VI 

To  every  peril,  hazard,  danger  blind, 
This  deperado-haunt  we  leave  behind. 
My  lords  and  gentlemen  of  Spain, 
Our  venture  wild,  our  pilgrimage,  is  on  again. 
Though  human  will  and  human  zeal 
May  beat  a  way  through  walls  of  steel, 
To  saints  and  gods  we  yet  appeal. 
Our  guiding  stars,  our  deities, 
Our   heavenly   patron   saints   are   these: 
Plutus,  god  of  treasure,  god  of  gold, 
He  makes  us   like  young  lions  bold, 
He  tempts  and  lures  us  to  his  fold. 
Heroic  Pride — we  answer  its  high  call; 
And  goddess  Fortune;  gentle,  kind  and  sweet, 
Who  reigns  triumphant  over  all — 
Will  bid   her  happy  favors  fall 
In  golden  treasures  at  our  feet; 
Patience,  too,  and  Courage  tried — 
The  noble  offspring  of  imperious  Pride; 
And  Fortitude— a  god  of  sullen  face, 
Of  iron  will;   grim,  merciless,  severe. 
He  sternly  bids  us  make  the  race 
Though  hapless,  hard  and  dreadful  scenes  appear. 
This  god  is  great,  and  paves  the  way 
To  glorious  spoils  on  battle  day. 
Nor  shall  we  deem  of  trivial  weight 
A  force  that  reigns  in  regal  state, 
And  reigns  supreme — men  term  it  Fate. 
Its  accident  of  will  is  law. 


82  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

While  kingdoms  crumble  at  its  beck, 

And  fill  a  startled  world  with  awe, 

It  flings  aside  the  mighty  wreck, 

Mayhap  with  cunning  hand  to  turn 

The  humble  chances  of  some  laison  low; 

To  teach  some  trustful  heart  to  burn, 

Or  guide  fond  Faith  down  steeps  of  woe; 

Or  yet  to  balk  some  well  laid  scheme 

With  deep  damnation   fraught; 

To  blast  some  sweet  and  lotus  dream, 

Or  mar  some  trebly  subtle  plot. 

When  lives  are  desperate  and  fortunes  great — 

All  hail  the  potent  hand  of  Fate! 

True  knight  of  Aragon,  of  proud  Castile, 

Ne'er  seeks  return  from  Danger's  track. 

At  Honor's  call  his  faith  he'll  seal 

With   dying  breath — ne'er  turns   he   back. 

VII 

Strange  stars  deceive  at  gorgeous  eve 
Of  torrid  South — orbs  we  know  not  of, 
In  glittering  firmaments  aflame  above; 
So  brilliant,  men  remote  would  not  believe, 
But   in   this   beauty — wonderful,   intense — 
Is  something  heavy  with  offense — 
A  weird,  uncanny  splendor  we  do  fear; 
A  supernatural  something  awes  us  here; 
The  Sun  glares  angrily,  with  evil  sign. 
Only  the  dazzling  Moon  comes  forth  benign, 
And   smiles   on   us   with   radiance   divine. 
Though  Hell  or  Heaven  bar  this  course, 
We  still  will  move  with  headlong  force. 
Death?     We  do  not  care.     It  were  death, 
And  worse  than  death,  to  sail  to  Spain, 
Unheralded   by   Glory's   breath, 
To  meet  a  sovereign's  cold  disdain; 
Uncrowned,  unknown,  in  nameless  penury  to  dwell, 
With  naught  in  life  to  lose  or  gain. 
That,  my  lords,  were  death — and  also  Hell. 
If  death  awaits,  so  let  it  be. 
Though  all  around  with  ill  is  rife — 
Sleepless,  restless,  fierce  with   stormy  life, 
We  push  through  dangerous  mystery 
In  quest  of  some  momentous  strife. 
Then  hasten,  knights — fast  come  the  time 
To  sweep  the  field  with  faith  sublime. 

VIII 

With  angel  smile,  through  regions  far, 
Hope   leads    us   on   to   reckless   war, 
And  Patience,  Hardihood  and  Pride 
All  bear   us  on  through  deserts  wide. 


MARCH    OF    OR  ELL  AN  A  83 

Lured  on  by   Fortune's  glowing   star 
Spain's  chivalry  delight  in  war. 
This  march  is  Heaven's  own  command. 
Ambition's   mad    pulsations, 
And    Europe's  martial  nations 
Will  win  this  heathen  land. 
With  swords  of  steel  and  coats  of  mail 
We'll  soon  o'er  heathen  hordes  prevail, 
And  swift  in  city,  coast  and  town 
Will  emblems  of  their  gods  go  down. 
This   war's   excitements   and   alarms 
Impart   to  life   intenser   charms. 
Our  passionate  love  of  arms, 
And  martial  pride  to  wield  them  well, 
Let  minstrel  songs  in  future  tell. 
And  of  our  dead? — they  proudly  fell. 
Each  did  his  part  at  Honor's  call. 
Great  martial  strife  survives  in  song. 
The   annals   high   that   Time   has   saved 
Pay  royal  honors  to  the  strong. 
They  won  all  things  their  passions  craved. 
The  race  that  feared  when  banners  waved, 
Was  plundered,  conquered  and  enslaved. 
Borne  on  by  fierce,  impetuous  Will, 
We  face  a  savage  contest  still. 
Before  the  Will,  Fate's  barriers  fall- 
Invincible    Will!    that    conquers   all. 
When  dangers  thicken  in  our  van, 
And  failure  blights  each  noble  plan, 
Imperious  Will  impels  us  on. 

Castilian  lords  and  Spanish  knights, 
I  bid  your  souls  be  unsubdued; 
Away  the  joys  of  sybarites, 
All   pleasant   scenes   of  calm    delights — 
Exult  you  in  proud  hardihood. 
Confront  the  terrors  of  the  wood, 
The  rage  of  Nature,  heat  of  sun, 
The   secret   snares  of  solitude; 
With  knightly  mien  and  courtly  grace, 
Front  ruin,  fearless,  face  to  face, 
When  gold  and  glory  may  be  won. 
We   march  again,   fierce  toils  begin; 
Our  choice  is  made — to  die  or  win. 

The  dreams  of  life,  how  swift   they   fade 

Beneath  the  breath  of  Time;  « 

How  soon   in   secret  graves   are  laid  • 

Each  impulse  high  and  hope  sublime,  * 

But  while  the   shafts  of  Chance  or   Fate 

Lay  each   golden   fabric   low, 

Not  long  we  mourn  its  fallen  state, 


84  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Or  cringe  beneath  the  brutal  blow. 

With  joy  we  learn  the  lesson  great 

That  in  this  wild,  enchanted  clime, 

True  knights  defy  the  hand  of  Fate, 

And  foil  the  rage  of  hateful  Time. 

Ye  sons  of  sires  who  drove  the  Moor 

To  Afric's  lair,  shall  not  our  fame  endure? 

Awake!     Press  on!     and  mighty  spoil  secure. 

IX 

Life  has  no  value,  chevaliers. 
This  melancholy  truth  is  told 
By  pen  of  genius,  tongue  of  seers, 
By  voice   of  wisdom   ages   old. 
Life's  vaunted  glory  does  not  last. 
Well  may  we  place  it  on  a  cast; 
A  trifle  flung  with  spirit  bold, 
In  wager  for  enormous  gold. 
Israel's  king,  in  pomps   magnificent, 
Of  all  his  dazzling  years  made  deep  repent; 
His  sensuous  joys  that  swiftly  went, 
His  mighty  works  that  charmed  a  while, 
Then  woke   his  cold,   derisive  smile, 
Foredoomed    to  end   in   nothingness. 
Death  had  no  terrors  or  distress. 
He  mourned  in  sorrow  and  in  pain 
That  all  that  mortals  do  is  vain. 
To  prince  or  peasant,  lord  or  slave, 
Comes   the  solemn  stillness  of  the   grave. 
Though  great  to  us  the  planets  seem, 
Firm  earth  will  vanish  like  a  dream. 
Life  has  no  value  to  the  brave. 
A  Roman  sage  in  scorn  averred 
That  for  the  starving  human  herd 
Quick  death  were  better  far  than  life. 
From  birth  to  death  'tis  only  strife. 
Some  evil  spirit  made  this  earth 
For  useless  miseries  and  pain. 
Since  human  life's  of  little  worth, 
We'll  stake  it  for  tremendous  gain. 
Revel,   feast,  enjoy,  and  fearless  die. 
This  is  age-old  philosophy. 
Weep  not  o'er  fallen  fortunes  past, 
We'll  gain  our  splendid  goal  at  last. 
Romantic  stories  will  be  told 
Of  how  we  won  our  princely  aim; 
How  health  and  lives  were  freely  sold 
For  wealth   and  power,   glory,  fame. 
Haste  on  through  bright  or  dismal  scene 
To  find  this  Amazonian  queen. 
Great  the  temptings  of  this  escapade; 
To  laugh,  to  die,  is  but  the  soldier's  trade. 


MARCH    OF    ORELLANA  85 

Since  life  hath  won  such  trifling  fame, 

We'll   stake  it   on  this  reckless  game. 

Our  swords  and  lives  we  place  in  pawn 

Till    Orellana's   march   is    done. 

A   woodland   grave  or  mighty  gain — 

This  is  our  choice,  O  knights  of  Spain. 

We'll  gather  gold  as  Hebrews  gathered  manna; 

The  crucial  test — to  march  with  Orellana. 

Then  onward  move  with  valiant  soul. 
Let  every  heart  with  fury  burn, 
With  prowess  and  with  valor  stern, 
To  write  high  names  on  Honor's  roll 
And   win  great  Orellana's  goal. 
One  day,  O  knights —  a  single  hour 
May  place  vast  wealth  within  our  power. 
Knights-errant  bold!    let  none  recoil; 
Wealth  of  Croesus  brings  Nirvana. 
In  temples  grand  of  this  wild   land, 
Where  reigns  in  state  a  proud  Sultana, 
We'll  seize  our  spoil  and  cease  our  toil 
On  trail  of  Orellana. 


86  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

CITY  OF  KALLAHOOTAH 

SCENE    I. 

[Office  of  the  Kallahootah  Swindling  &  Dining  Company, 
Colonel  Booster  in  the  highway-robbery  chair,  and  present, 
Count  Lucius  Von  Inkslinger,  a  noble  but  impecunious  poet.] 

Colonel  Booster: 

They  tell  me  thou  art  a  genius, 
Lost  in  dreams  of  vivid  imagery; 
Melancholy  oft,  solitary,  taciturn; 
Dwelling  apart  from   men 
Till  drawn  to  sordid  earth 
By   occasional   pangs   of  hunger. 
Distaste  of  toil  hath  made  thee  poor. 
Thou  lackest  gold. 

Count  Lucius: 

True,    illustrious    pooler. 

Colonel: 

Look  you.     I  own  a  burning  desert 

Which  men  do  name  the  Kallahootah. 

Remote  it  is,   in  middle  Aridzone. 

Beasts  of  prey  observe  it  warily, 

Construe  it  far  aloof, 

Then  fly  its  rueful  confines. 

Ravens,  buzzards,  noxious  birds  of  air, 

Scream  wildly  when  they  near  it. 

These  partial  ills,  to  you,  I  do  confess. 

There  rattlesnakes  attain  enormous  size, 

And  range  the  land  in  regiments 

To  feed  on  hapless  human  wand'rers. 

Venomous  tarantulas  teem,  reptiles  crawl, 

Scorpions  hide,  Gila  monsters  drowse; 

The  agile  centipede  lies  in  wait, 

With  poisonous  fangs,  in  every  smoky  crevice. 

Count : 

Alas!  thou  art  poor  as  myself. 

Colonel: 

Not  so.    This  barren  waste  is  treeless. 

Cacti  wilt  or  parch  on  burning  sands. 

Contagions  propagate,  malarias  float, 

Bubonics  thrive,  plagues  engender; 

E'en  leprosy  may  there  evolve. 

For  thirty  days  each  year  a  river  flows, 

Fetid,  through  this  Death's  abode, 

Then  the  sun  licks  up  the  muddy  flood; 

Its  very  bed  resolves  to  dust, 

And  is  blown  far  heavenward. 

On  shrivelled  pampas  of  wild-sage 

A  si-ckly  pretense   of  thin  verdure   pines. 


CITY    OF    KALLAHOOTAH  87 

Human  habitations  once  arose 

On  this  unpleasant  scene. 

'Twas  on  a  former  dismal  time, 

But  the  occupants  are  gone. 

Of  sundry  things  they  died. 

Their  huts  are  lairs  of  howling  wolves, 

And  snakes  do  hiss  and  fight  around. 

Count: 

0  horrible! 

Colonel: 

Climatic  freaks  assail  this  weary  zone. 

In  wintry  months  disastrous  blizzards  come 

From  tall  glaciers,  and  distant  mountain  peaks, 

Freezing  air  to  temperature  intense. 

In  other  months  the  brains  of  army  mules 

Are  fried  and  fricasseed  within  their  massive  skulls. 

Count  (in  alarm j  : 

Thou  wouldst  not  have  me  dwell 
At  deadly  Kallahootah? 

Colonel: 

No.     A  graveyard  there  was  once  promoted. 
Since  men  could  only  die  upon  that  spot, 
'Twas  thought  a  cemetery  would  prove 
A  paying  venture,  but  skeletons  of  men 
Which   living  skeletons  did  there  entomb, 
Were  resurrected  by  starved  beasts  of  prey, 
And  famished  vultures  hovered  round, 
And   fought  to  join  the  horrid  banquet. 
The  scattered  bones  of  those   unhappy  men 
Do  now  appall  the  frighted  traveler. 

Count: 

Speak!      WThat  wouldst  thou? 

Colonel: 

1  would  have  thee,  troubadour,  to  paint  for  me 
Delightful  scenes,  on  that  abhorrent  waste, 
That  simple-minded  folk  in   States  remote 
May  buy  those  barren  lands,  and  make  me  rich. 

I  tender  thee  a  kindly  recompense. 

Delineate  a  stream  effluent, 

With  tides  fresh  from  fountains  of  the  hills, 

Whereon  a   stately   steamer   rides; 

Fields  of  grain  and  groves  of  palm,  vineyards  wide, 

And  gardens  filled  with  luscious  fruits. 

Have,  too,  a  pleasant  city  on  that  shore, 

With  avenues  abloom  with  flow'ry  trees, 

And  plazas  bright  with  limpid  pools, 

And  wavy  clumps  of  rich  exotic  plants, 

And  fairest  of  all  foreign  flowers, 

And  here  and  there,  with  walls  of  white, 


SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Have  marble  mansions  fit  for  Moorish  kings. 
Sling  thyself,  poet — I'll  give  thee  good  reward. 

Count: 

Thy  dupes  will  soon  return, 
To  cry  aloud  thy  villainy. 

Colonel: 

Ha!  fear  thou  not.     Who  sits  him  down 
On  Kallahootah  tract,  will   see 
The  breathing  world  no  more. 
Wolves  will  howl  his  requiem. 

Count: 

A  conscience,  Sir,  I  have — a  soul! 

Colonel: 

A  corporation  of  our  noble  State, 
The  Swindling  &  Dining  Company 
Has  no  soul.     I,  myself, 
Am  several  corporations,  and  hence 
Have  had  no  soul  for  many  years. 
What  say  you  to  my  offer? 

Count: 

Hunger,  alas,  compels  acceptance. 

Colonel: 

And  thou  art  wise.    I've  read  me  of  a  knave 
Poor  as  thyself,  ignoble  quite, 
Who  sought  to  win  a  wealthy  dame. 
Without  a  home  or  worthy  dwelling  place, 
He  thus  to  her  did  improvise 
A  castle  in  the  air,  for  her  delusion. 
"A  deep  vale,  shut  in  by  Alpine  hills 
From  a  rude  world;  near,  a  lake 
Marged  by  fruits  of  gold  and  whisp'ring  myrtles; 
A  palace  fair,  lifting  to  eternal  summer 
Its  marble  walls  from  out  a  glossy  bower 
Of  coolest  foliage,  musical  with  birds. 
At  noon  we'll  sit  in  silent  rest, 
And  wonder  earth  is  e'er  unhappy 
Since  Heaven  leaves  us  youth  and  love. 
When  night  is  come  'mid  breathless  heavens, 
We'll  guess  what  star  shall  be  our  home 
When  love  has  grown   immortal. 
Every  air  is  faint  with  rich  perfume — 
With  breath  of  orange  groves,  and  music  from 
Sweet  lutes,  and  murmurs  of  low  fountains 
That  rise  'neath  canopies  of  roses."  * 
This  be  thy  model,  poet.     If  thou  wouldst  fare 
As  well  as  he,  paint  thou  a  paradise 
At   deadly   Kallahootah. 

(Exit  Poet,  dejected.) 


*  Bulwer. 


CITY    01     KALLAHOOTAH  £9 

B<  i  M.   11. 
(Office  of  the  Swindling  &  Dining  Company.) 

Colon*  1  : 

Hast   thou   seen   Count    Lucius   Von    Inkslinger   this 
morning? 

•'//•//: 
I  have  but  left  him,  Sir. 

ColoiK  -I: 

And  where  tarries  he  with  the  maps, 
Advertisements,  engravings  and  prints 
Of  the  Swindling  &  Dining  Company? 

'  • '  ri/  : 

He  is  at  the  Morgue,  Sir.     The  papers  I  have  safely 
in  possession. 

Colonel: 

And   what  doeth   he  at  the  Morgue? 

Secretary : 

He  lieth  full  length  on  a  slab  of  ice. 

Completing  the  work  assigned   him, 

He  drew  his  paltry  pay  therefor; 

Then  met  a  garrulous  knave 

From  Arizona  wilds,  in  treatment  here  for  viper  bite. 

To  the  Count  this  person  gave  additional  data 

Of  the  region  written  of. 

Straightway  Count  Lucius  hanged  himself 

In  yonder  alley,  Sir. 

Colonel: 

O  that  I  had  sold  him  a  lot 
In  the  City  of  Kallahootah. 
Off!    to  print  his   rubbish. 


FIFTY  YEARS  AGO 


IDYLS  OF  BOHEMIA 


CAMP  MrCLKLLAN 

[Iowa's  principal  instruction  camp  in  the  Civil  War.    Writ- 
ten in  1SS4.I 

Twenty-two  years   ago   we   marched   these  hills 

With    martial   aspirations   duly   fired, 

Nor  thought  of  graves  and  wounds  and  other  ills — 

Free  gifts  of  Mars  not  much  to  be  desired. 

How  swift  the  busy  years  have  rolled  around. 

Temp  us  fuyit!    Yes,  it  fugits  mighty   fast. 

T\vas  yesterday  we  trod  this  hallowed  ground, 

And  then  were  boys,  awoke  by   Glory's   blast. 

To-day  we  are  grave  men,  from  sorrow  sore — 

War-wearied  knights  in  Life's  unending  fray — 

We  who  survive,  for  most  sleep  far  away, 

Slain  for  the  flag  our  gallant  fathers  bore. 

As   eagles    fall,    when    Heaven's    lightning   rends, 

They  gave  their  youth  and  lives  for  noble  ends — 

Cold,  selfish   men   in  secret   vote   them   fools; 

Perhaps   they   were,   for   by   commercial   rules 

They  gave  too  much  for  what  they  got — a  grave. 

They  only  knew  there  was  a  land  to  save, 

That  they  were  young  and  fit  for  War's  alarms; 

That  Freedom  called  her  champions  to  arms. 

The  humblest  one  of  that  devoted  band 

Was    worth,    to    his    endangered    native    land, 

To  human  progress  and  the  world's  affairs, 

More  than  a  hundred  greedy  millionaires. 

So  here  we  marched,  but  ah!   how  changed  the  scene. 
Now  peaceful  kine  browse  on  the  verdure  green; 
Our  barracks  rude  have  all  been  torn  away, 
The  ax  has  felled  our  broadly  waving  oaks; 
To  Ceres  fair  grim  Mars  has  yielded  sway; 
Where  bugles  rang  the  solemn  bullfrog  croaks, 
The   crickets   chirp,   and   low  is   heard  the  hum 
Of  honey  bees  where   beat  the  rattling  drum, 
And  lovers  whisper  where  the  loud  command 
Pealed  on  the  air  from  chiefs  of  lofty  grade; 
Where   lines  of  battle   formed  now  fences  stand, 
And  idle  sheep  loll  on  the  grand  parade. 

What  countless  memories  are  here  revived 

Of   sports    and    pageants,    drill   and    frolics    wild. 

When   staid   commanders  had  us  safely  hived 

At  eve,  how  oft  at  discipline  we  smiled, 

And   sudden  charged   the   hated  sentry  line, 

And  sought  the  neighb'ring  town's  attractive  bound, 

To  woo  sweethearts,  for  where  brass  buttons  shine 

There  Cupid,  Bacchus  and  gay  nymphs  are  found. 

Alas,  we  came  to  grief  from  apple  pies — 

Our  chosen  band.     We  smashed  a  bake-shop   in 


94  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

To  learn  how  moving  armies  get  supplies, 
And  rich  in  sauce  and  pies  and  plates  of  tin, 
And  other  spoils — all  smeared  with  plunder  sweet, 
In  goodly  order  we   strolled   up  the  street. 
An  armed  patrol  in  stealthy  ambush  lay, 
To  neatly  capture  us  young  beasts  of  prey. 

Like  Lara,  chieftain  of  Byronic  fame, 

Our  Colonel  was  an  officer  austere. 

From  West   Point's  famed   academy  he   came, 

Pew  were  his  words,  his  haughty  mien  severe. 

His  very  glance  inspired  a  kind  of  fear, 

Yet  none  possessed  a  more  consummate  skill 

In  teaching  men  how  properly  to  kill, 

In  Danger's  hour  how  gallantly  to  lead. 

Or,  by  example,  how  to  fight  and  bleed. 

These  warlike  virtues  were  anon  revealed. 

He  proved  a  hero  in  the  tented  field, 

But  at  the  first  we  did  not  love  him  over  well. 

He   said   too  much   although   his   words   were   few; 

The  drill  ground  air  had  a  sulphuric  smell, 

And  new  recruits  pronounced  his  ways  congealed — 

Quite  frigid,   as  it  were — these  warmer   grew 

When,  ere  we  left  for  southern  hill  and  vale, 

Some  wretch  cut  off  his  blooded  horse's  tail. 

He   led   us   off,  at   length,  a  thousand   strong, 

And   in  old   Shiloh's   green,   immortal  wood, 

With  brag  and  jest   and   patriotic  song, 

And  warlike  relish  for  a  feast  of  blood, 

We  marched  to  stem  Defeat's  o'erwhelming  flood. 

"Just  wait  till  we  get  there,"  we  grandly  cried 
To    routed   regiments    and    flying    squads; 

"We'll  smash  those  butternuts,  cool  down  their  pride; 
Yes,  do  it  in  two  hours,  by  the  gods! 
And  have  their  flags,  and  hang  Jeff  Davis  high. 
You  are  going  to  see  this  battle  won." 
Our  Colonel  sneered — we  did  not  then  know  why, 
But  ascertained  before  the  set  of  sun. 
Ah,  well!   we  then  were  what  the  books  call  "raw." 
luka,   Corinth,   Vicksburg,   Kenesaw, 
Atlanta,  March  to  the  Sea — these  the  names 
That  grew  upon  our  flag,  bright  as  the  flames 
Of  rising  sun,  and  blazoned  all  in  gold, 
Yet  every  letter  on  that  standard's  fold 
Cost  blood  and  lives  and  agonies  untold. 
God  rest  the  boys  who  for  its  honor  sold 
All  that  a  human  life  can  have  or  hold. 

I  linger  here  but  only  to  be  sad. 

War  yet  awaits, 'not  of  the  olden  kind. 

I   thought  these  early  scenes  would  make  me  glad. 


[DYLS  OF  BOHEMIA  95 

They  but  distress  an  over-weighted  mind. 

Ah!    the  happiest  days  I  ever  knew 

Were  when  I   wore  at  war  the   Nation's  blue. 


SOLOMON'S  LAMKXT 

0  Shulamite,   return,   return — 

My  heart  is  lone,  no  joys  can  cheer; 
The  very  stars  have  ceased  to  burn 
With    wonted    rays,   and    chill    and    drear 
The  breezes  come  from   mountains  bare 
To  moan  to  me  in  low  despair. 
They  miss  thee  as  the  stars  have  done, 
Thy  roses  swoon  beneath  the  sun; 
All  nature  sighs,  all  fair  things  yearn 
For  thee — O   Shulamite  return. 

Return,  return,  O  Shulamite — 

1  cannot  stay  my  grief  with  wine; 

I  cannot  through  the  day  or  night 

These  wasting  thoughts  of  thee  resign; 

No  more  my  wonted  joys  delight, 

No  more  I  bow  at  Pleasure's  shrine, 

Nor  bask  in  halls  of  glory  bright — 

How  long,  O  sweet,  must  I  repine? 

A  kindred  one  I  cannot  meet 

'Mong  all  Judea^s  joyous  throng; 

Ah!  whither  stray  thy  wayward  feet, 

Thou  princess  of  my  mournful  song? 

O  peerless   idol  of  my   mind, 

Thou   sweeter   than  the  breath   of  dawn; 

O  fairest  of  all  womankind — 

Queen  of  my  heart,  where  hast  thou  gone? 

Hath  love  yet  lore  thou  hast  not  taught 

Or  lore  I  have  not  deigned  to  learn? 

Then   be  all   lore   save   thine   forgot 

O  Shulamite  return,  return. 


OFF  TO  THE  WARS 

[1862] 

Adieu,   sweet   maids   of   honor   frail, 
Of  charms  too  fair  to  last; 

Adieu  each  dear  and  sunny  vale 
Where  happiest  hours  have  passed; 

Where  sweeps  Destruction's  lurid  gale 
My  future  lot  is  cast. 


96  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 


HOLOFERNES  AT  ZIDON 

Lo!  where  his  minions  had  marched  in  their  pride, 
The  cities  were  gone,  and  all  men  had  died. 
Where  once  rich  valleys  blushed  golden  with  grain, 
Hot  ashes  were  blown  o'er  forms  of  the  slain. 
•Where   fruits   gr,ew   luscious   in    lowland   or   glen, 
The  brooks  wens  all  choked  with  corses  of  men. 
In  vengeance  he*  rode  to  the  bright  sea  coast — 
Zidonia  trembled  at  tread  of  his  host. 
The  virgins  came  forth  in  bravest  attire, 
With  dancing  and  songs,  with  timbrel  and  lyre. 
With  garlands  and   roses  they  showered   his  path; 
Their  beauty   assuaged  his  lowering  wrath. 
He  marked  their  pallor,  the  fear  in  their  song, 
And  sorrowed  for  war  and  the  rage  of  the  strong. 
'Let  not  these  daughters  be  tarnished,"  he  said, 
'Nor  harm  ye  the  land  in  which  they  were  bred." 


MUSINGS  OF  A  SEER  OF  ATLANTIS 

[See  Prose  Addenda.] 

The  Moon  is  a  pale,  dead  world; 

A  floating  sepulchre  in  eternal  space. 

O,  Stars,  tell  me  of  its  past. 

What  races  there  did  dwell, 

Waging  gigantic  wars, 

Crowning  kings,  and  rearing  aloft 

Colossean  fanes? — miracles  of  art. 

Glorious  empires  there  held  reign, 

Waned  old,  and  passed. 

Thrones,  peoples,  pomps,  are  gone. 

Flesh,  bones,  temples,  tombs, 

Are  idle  dust, 

Blown  hither  and  yon  on  useless  gales. 

Shall  our  world  perish  like  yonder  orb, 

And  roll  through  space  all  tenantless 

Till   Time  shall  be  no  more? 

And  to  what  purport  when  we  are  gone? 

Shall  human  forms  all  vanish  quite, 

Like  races  now  extinct, 

And  still  the  world^roll  on? 

Shall  great  Atlantis  fall? 
Its  wealth,  arms  and  glories 
Be  only  dust? 


IDYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  97 

All  rumor  of  its  grandeurs  pass  away? 

Heroes,  demi-gods   and   kings 

Be  as  men  who  never  were? 

Its  shrines,  temples,  trophies,  fall  to  dust? 

Its  mighty  wars, 

The  story  of  its  fame,  be  lost? 

Resolve  to  nothingness? 

I  am  told  of  a  star 

Huge  as  a  thousand  suns  like  ours. 

What  vasty  worlds  revolve 

In   its   vivifying  rays? 

Who  dwell  upon  those  worlds? 

Creatures   of   nobler    mould 

Than  petty  race  like  ours? 

Do  they  toil  like  us  to  feed 

The   rapacious   maw   of   Time? 

What  is  Time  that  we  call  him  old, 

In  presence  of  the  slowly  changing  stars? 

Pale,  melancholy  orb! 
Desolation's  prey. 
Sad  epitaph  to  warn  this  world: 
'My  doom  is  thine." 

In  contrast  with  huge  orbs  of  Space — 

Whole  firmaments  of  suns  and  worlds — 

Prodigious    worlds    and    stars, 

Awful   constellations  vast, 

This  globe  is  but  a  speck, 

A  mote,  a  tiny  grain  of  sand; 

Imperious    Man — a   spark, 

A  flash,  a  glint,  a  ray  that  fades, 

An  atom  blown  to  endless  night.   . 

He  springs  from  earth 

And    gazes    on    the   stars, 

And  wonders  deeply  whence  he  came, 

Then  falls  into  the  grave 

And  mingles  with  the  dust. 

He's  gone — forever  gone! 

Hopeless,  hapless  Man. 

With  awe  yon  glorious   Sun  we  view, 
With  vaster  suns  all  outer  space  is  filled. 
The  scene  dismays.    No  center,  limit, 
End  or  bound,  but  everywhere, 
And  still  beyond,  and  yet  beyond, 
The  planets  blaze  and  suns  explore. 

All  matter  is  instinct  with  life, 
Nor  life  can  be  elsewhere. 


98.  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Constellations  meet,  burn  to  mist; 

Renew  in  grander,  more  luminous  forms. 

Innate  force,  inherent  law, 

Impel,  control  these  elements  alway. 

Uncreated,    undestroyed,   eternal   orbs! 

Their  doom  is  change — ceaseless  change 

That   fills  stupendous  lapse  of  time, 

With   no  final  purpose   Man  can  see. 

They  flame,  consume,  renew; 

They   wheel  with   slow,   incessant  change. 

Millions  and   millions   of   suns 

Bestrew  the  Milky  Way, 

So  utter  far  from  earth 

They  fade  into  a  snowy  mist, 

And   men  do   prate   of  nebulae, 

Yet  all  these  luminaries  vast — 

All  solar  sights  and  scenes  we  view — 

Obey   one  star  in   Pleiades; 

Are  held  in  place  and  move  alway 

At  influence  of  great  Halcyone. 

Tremendous  orb 

This   Halcyone  must  be — 

A  starry  speck  to  us 

In  midst  of  Pleiades. 

This  awful  Universe  that  spreads  so  far, 
Is  but  a  speck 

In  endless  oceans  of  its  kind 
That   have  no  boundary  or   end. 
.    Changing  but  eternal   Infinite, 
Its  mystery  doth  appall — 
Tremendous,   deep!      It  baffles  human  mind. 

Where  dwells  a  silent,  awful  Force 

That  slowly  works  out  Immensity's  plans? 

An  Architect 

Whose  colossal  lines  are  never  false? 

A  Mathematician 

Whose  calculations  are  so  vast? 

A  Poet,  to  conceive 

Such    magnificent   designs? 

Vain  we  ask  derisive  stars. 

Unbelieveable,  inconceivable  Space! 

Beauty,  order,  majesty,  and  fiendish  cruelties 

Pervade  it  all. 

'Mong  firmaments  of  universes  vast, 
That  glow  in  space  that  has  no  end, 
What  petty  thing  is  Man. 


I  1)  VLS    OF    BOHEMIA  99 

LKJIIT  LOVK   IN    IU  HI  KM  I A 

Eyes   soft   and    sensuous, 

Languishing  with  love; 

With  bouteous  passion  full 

And    half   o'erflowing; 

Lust  scarce  concealed 

Within    their   lustrous   shades; 

From   their   liquid   depths 

Suggesting    forbidden    things; 

Tempting  with  bewitching  grace; 

Prisoning   lascivious  thoughts 

That   issue   to   the   light 

As   sun   rays  traverse   the   air, 

Viewless,   silent,   yet  subduing; 

Bidding  passion   kindle, 

And  promising  consent; 

Potent  as  the  sighing  winds  are, 

And  the  odors  of  flowers, 

When  they  soothe  us  from  toil ; 

Melting  with   dreamy   languor; 

Passive,  yet  with  a  spell 

That  leaves  no  choice; 

Seeming  to  slumber,  yet  awake 

And  strong  in  demands; 

Steeped  in  tenderness, 

Oppressed  with  desire, 

Beseeching   love 

And    the   meed   of    love — 

Sweet   voluptuary, 

Who   resists  their   magic? 

From  their  inner  zones 

A  soul  looks  forth; 

It  feeds  on  joy, 

It  laughs  with  fullness; 

It  revels  in  sense. 

Yet   must   it   perish. 

The  flowers  in  hue 

Are  fair  and  matchless. 

A  master's  hand 

Cannot  depict  them. 

Yet  the  winds  come 

And  they  perish. 

So   perishes   the   soul 

And  passes  from  being. 

So  fair  a  thing  as  thou 

Must  be  no  more. 

Adore  thy  shrine  of  sense, 

And  live  thy  summer  day — 

Once  sped — it  comes  no  more. 


100  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

THE  IVY 

Not  where  Wealth  and  Fashion  thrive, 

Or  Pleasure  lays  its  tempting  snare; 
Not  where  Hate  and  Passion  strive, 

Or  monarchs  bow  with  weight  of  care; 
Not  where  Pomp  and  Wrong  allied 

Dazzle  with  their  sickly  glare; 
Not   where    palaces   arise 

The  Ivy  twines  its  tendrils  fair. 

Not  where  storm  of  battle  reigns, 

And  men  for  crowns  of  glory  dare; 
Where  tyrants  forge  their  cruel  chains, 

And  victims  grovel  in  despair; 
Not  where   notes   of   triumph   sound, 

And  paeans  float  on  smoky  air; 
Not  where  revel   bowls  go  round 

The    Ivy   twines   its   tendrils   fair. 

Not  where  pageants  mock  the  weary  heart, 

And  kings  in  pomp  their  will  declare; 
Where  Commerce  builds  its  busy  mart, 

Or  Avarice  its  gilded  lair; 
Not  where  plains  rejoice  with  golden  grain 

Where  deeply  smote  the  wounding  share; 
Not  where  Plenty  leads  her  smiling  train 

The   Ivy  twines  its  tendrils  fair. 

But   when  Ambition  broods   no   more, 

And  glory  fades  to  empty  air; 
When  fanes  are  dust  and  pageants  o'er, 

And   cities  robe   in  mute  despair; 
When  Ruin  frowns  where  splendors  shone, 

And  Time  lays  hidden  places  bare — 
Then  o'er  the  monarch's  vacant  throne 

The  Ivy  twines  its  tendrils  fair. 


TWO  OF  A  KIND 

"I'm  tired  out — exhausted,  I  declare." 
"O,  I  am  tired,  too.     I'm  in  despair. 
Let  me  tumble  here  to  tear  my  hair." 
"What's  your  trade,  my  weary  one?" 
"Fool-killer,  friend.    My  work  is  never  done. 


1  I)  VLS    OF    BOHEMIA  IGt 

DISASTKK   AT  SHILOH 

The  peal  of  arms  was  one  unbroken  roar, 

As  when  a  tidal  ocean  shakes  a  shore; 

'Twas  louder  than  when  storms  of  heaven  wage 

Their  elemental  war,  with  sacred  fire. 

Now  smooth  it  rolled,  then  burst  with  awful  ire, 

To  crash  and  lash  as  with  redoubled  rage. 

Sometimes   in   fearful   volleys   cannon   pealed; 

Their   fiery    shells   from   lofty   woodlands    tore 

Huge  limbs,  and  flung  them  o'er  the  trembling  field. 

The  earth  vibrated  with  explosions  loud, 

And  forest  leaves  shook  in  their  smoky  shroud. 

As  mellow  gales  dissolved  the  battle's  haze — 

Bore  back  the  combat's  clouds  where  gath'ring  most, 

Far  through  the  stately  woods  resplendent  rays 

Flashed  o'er  the  arms  of  either  warlike  host. 

For  miles  the  volleys  crashed  from  crest  and  glade, 

While  ceaseless  roared  the  dreadful  cannonade. 

Plutonian  thunders  rolled  through  heaven's  vaults; 

Fierce  and  impetuous  the  foe's  assaults, 

Like  surges  rushing  on  impassive  rocks. 

Our  long  lines  wavered  with  repeated  shocks. 

A  crisis  came — in  vain  the  shrill  command, 

Entreaties,  threats,  the  fierce  and  final  stand 

Of  frenzied  soldiers  and  their  chieftains  brave. 

Our  legions   broke   before   that   martial  wave. 

From  wing  to  wing  of  all  the  Nation's  host 

Disaster  fell — once  more  the   field  was  lost. 

But  say  not  so — on  fateful  scenes  of  war 

No  day  is  lost,  no  strife  or  blow  is  vain ; 

Unquenched  the  glow  of  Fortune's  changeful  star 

While  banners,  arms  and  heroes  yet  remain. 


(iLOKIETTA  MOUNTAINS 

O'er  forest  hills,  with  canyons  deep, 

How  winsome — wild — is  primal  Nature's  guise. 

With  ocean  sound  a  lonely  zephyr  dies. 

The  mountains  in  soft  wintry   sunshine  sleep. 

O  scenes  of  peace  where  in  old  years  was  fought 

A  fray  that  sent  some  paladins  to  rest. 

The  Southern  Cross  unfurled  its  baleful  hues 

To  free  wild  breezes  of  the  boundless  West. 

Then  hillsides  paled  with  Combat's  crimson  dews. 

The  whirr  of  shell  and  whiz  of  cannon  shot 

Awoke  the  silence  of  each  sylvan  spot. 

The  blood  of  heroes  bathed  each  lofty  crest. 

At  Santa  Fe  the  visitor  is  shown 

A  shaft  in  memory  of  those  who  fell. 

They  rest  in  peace  in  some  wild  mountain  dell — 

Rude  fighters  who  disdain  a  funeral  stone. 


H>2  .SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

PHILOSOPHY  OF  COKTEZ 

Amid  a  selfish  world — its  clamors  loud — 

How  shall  I  win  at  last  a  lofty  place? 

By  genius,  valor  and  ambition  proud, 

Or  by  low  artifice,  corruption  base? 

Creep  through  the  mobs  like  pestilential  air, 

Or  like  a  thunderbolt  my  pathway  tear? 

To  force  impetuous  mankind  will  bow, 

And  yet  they  hate  the  bays  on  Triumph's  brow; 

They  slander  Force  because   it  wins  what  prize 

Is  noblest,  most  alluring  in  its  eyes, 

And  of  the  spoil  will  give  no  man  a  share — 

Appears  in  arms  to  guard  its  golden  lair. 

How  great  is  force!     The  human  race  arise 

In  salutation  to  a  heart  of  fire 

That  will  not  perish  in   Misfortune's  mire — 

With  plaudits  hail  when  crown  of  genius  glows 

On  power  that  disdains  all  human  foes. 

He  who  excels  mankind   in  selfish  power, 

May  hold  his  course  with  high,  disdainful  mien 

But  Envy  will  assail  him  every  hour, 

And  only  when  his  ready  sword  is  seen 

Will  Hate  and   Slander  in  his  presence  cower. 

In  Ambition's  chase,  away  with  idle  fears, 

Nor  care  for  blood  of  man  or  woman's  tears. 


CAMOENS 

A  voyager  on   many  seas, 

He  saw  no  shore  with  scenes  to  please. 

A  scholar,  soldier,  epic  bard; 

A  free  lance  of  unsullied  fame, 

He  ever  seemed  Misfortune's  ward, 

From   every  stately   path  debarred — 

His  native  land's  eternal  shame! 

Forgetful  of  the  blood  he  gave 

In  her  defence,    (his  poems  grand 

Her  glory  bore  to  every  land)  — 

She  laid  his  dust  in  pariah's  grave. 

In  vain  the  marble  bears  his  name, 

His  form,  aloft,  as  if  for  him 

Were   praise   of  earth   or   voice  of   blame. 

What  if  his  martial  bays  are  dim? 

With  deep  remorse  and  robes  of  gloom, 

O  Lusitania,  guard  his  tomb. 


IDYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  103 

MACKO  TO  TIIK  CUBANS 

Who  bows  a  paltry  slave,  in  low  content, 
Xor  hath  a  lofty  thought  or  savage  mood, 
Will   have  his  fill  of  human  servitude — 
For  such  as  he  the  lords  of  Spain  are  sent. 
No  right  adorns  a  freeborn  race  to-day, 
That  heroes  did  not  fall  in  battle  for; 
Which  tyrants  have  not  tried  to  wrest  aw&y, 
For  liberty  demands  eternal  war. 
Shall  hate  of  tyranny  forever  sleep? 
No  hope  of  freedom  thrill  this  prostrate  race? 
O,  slaves,  no  more  in  subjugation  weep. 
In  fury  arm— a  curse  for  those  who  keep 
A  sword  undrawn,  or  yield  a  single  pace 
When  ruthless  Power  meets  them  face  to  face, 
Rebel!     Spain  is  the  sum  of  human  ill — 
Withstand   her  minions  with   heroic  will. 
From  bondage  fly  to  noble  scenes  of  strife. 
Away  with  peace!     It  is  the  slave's  device 
To  shun  encounter  with  remorseless  Force; 
It  is  the  craven's — coward's  dull  resource. 
No  prudence  now  will  slavish  weal  enhance — 
To  arms!      Upon   the  foe  in  wrath  advance. 


PASSING  THE  GOLDEX  GATE 

Adieu,  O  Lands,  to  me  of  pain — 

You'll  greet  no  more  these  mournful  eyes; 

To  other  climes  of  softer  skies, 

Of  greener   shores,   our   vessel    flies 

Far  down  Balboa's  boundless  main. 

O  welcome  winds  from  distant  isles, 
O  welcome  suns  of  warmer  glow; 
Hoar  peaks  all  pale  with  crown  of  snow; 
And  seas  whose  floods  sway  still  and  slow 
Where  fragrant  Earth  forever  smiles. 

Adieu,  Camille!    O  think  of  me 
When  far  we  cleave  yon  ocean's  foam. 
Let  all  South  winds  that  reach  thy  home, 
And    ev'ry   star   in   heaven's   dome 
Bear  messages  from  me  to  thee. 

My  heart  is  thine — a  pensive  thought, 
Since  years  may  pass  ere  we  shall  meet. 
Whatever  lands  my  wand'ring  feet 
Anon  may  tread,  how  passing  sweet 
If  thou,    O  love,   forget   me   not! 


104  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

In  those  fair  days,  when  all  is  o'er 
That  lures  me  from  thy  presence  now, 
Though  bridal  roses  wreathe  thy  brow, 
May  I   not  claim,   O  love,  that  thou 
Remember  still  the  vows  of  yore? 

Alas!  that  naught  is  left  to  me 
Save  memories — Love's  tender  woe. 
Ajnbition   speaks — thy  heartless  foe. 
Ah!   that  I  yield  to  folly  so, 
And  for  a  bauble  fly  from  thee. 


THE  CARIB  CHIEF'S  DAUGHTER 

"When   knighthood  was  in  flower" 

How  fair  the  strangers  were  with  faces  pale, 

With  silv'ry  arms  and  lustrous  coats  of  mail 

That  flashed  beneath  a  cloudless  heaven's  blaze; 

With   snowy   plumes,   regalia,   lofty   ways; 

With  steeds — ne'er  heard  of  in  the  olden  days. 

Alas!   the  humblest  knight  of  pallid  face 

Was  nobler  than  a  prince  of  native  race. 

But  most  her  timid  gaze  fell  on  the  one 

Whom  all  those  fearless,  warlike  knights  obeyed. 

To  her   Balboa  was  an  orient   sun 

Commanding  fires  of  lesser  splendor  fade. 

In  admiration,  homage,  passion,  love, 

She  viewed  his  knightly  mien  with  raptured  eye. 

He  seemed  a  scion  of  the  zones  above, 

A  bright  arch-angel  of  the  starry  sky. 

How  low — how  most  unworthy  seemed  she  when 

She  saw  the  king  of  all  those  warlike  men. 

Long  was  the  parley  that  in  peace  transpired. 

With  signs,  or  Lascan  words,  the  rover  spoke. 

She  lingered  near,  with  wild  emotions  fired. 

At  last  her  new-born  love  the  silence  broke. 

She  bade  her  sire,  in  murmurs  of  delight, 

To  sue  for  her  the  stately  Spanish  knight. 

Strange  were  the  ways  in  that  fierce  torrid  clime, 

That  race  among,  and  in  that  early  time. 

No  cold  reproof  the  native  chief  expressed, 

Nor  made  a  wonder  of  her  wild  request. 

Her  hand   he   gave   unto  the   Spanish  knight, 

Who  saw  with  pain,  and  with  grave  courtesy, 

Revealed  by  signs  his  bosom  was  not  free, 

For  long  ago  he  made  his  noble  plight 

With  pale  fair  lady  far  across  the  sea. 

In  silent  sorrow  moved  she  then  away, 

Nor  from  disaster  of  that  evil  day 


IDYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  105 

Had  lover,  pleasure,  joy  or  impulse  gay. 

Yet  fair  Castilian  love  across  the  sea 

Had   few   more  moons  of  happiness  than  she. 

The  peerless  rover  fell  Davila's  prey. 

In   youthful   glory,  splendor,  passed   away. 


MY  CHOSEN  THEME 

My  chosen  theme  is  peerless  Man 

When  Superstition's  chains  are  gone, 

And  queenly   Science  leads  him  on. 

I    view   him   in   fierce  Glory's  van, 

Resplendent  chief  of  Murder's  clan — 

Rebellious,  wild,  with  heart  of  oak; 

Defiant  of  the  foeman's  plan 

While  wreathed  around  with  cannon  smoke. 

Heroic  in  the  bold  assault, 

Ere  pealing  up  to  heaven's  vault 

Are  cries  of  victory  and  joy. 

I  view  him  in  his  long  employ 

Of  glorious  arts;   his  lustrous  eye 

With  genius  glows;  his  lips  are  still; 

His  hand  obeys  a  regal  will 

That  gloomy  Death  alone  may  foil. 

Imagination  gilds  his  toil 

With  scenes  that  he  alone  may  view. 

His  pencil  charms,  his  song  is  true, 

He  fills  with  life  the  marble  white, 

His  music  moves  us  with  delight, 

Palatial  halls  he  rears  on  high; 

His  mighty  fleets  «f  steel'  go  by 

To  brave  the  tempest  on  the  main; 

Around  the  world  he  flings  a  chain 

Of  astral  fire;   repels  the  seas, 

Or  bids   the   rival   oceans  meet; 

His  air-ships  mount  upon  the  breeze — 

Leave  earth  and  ocean  at  his  feet, 

And  float  in  heights  of  heavens  blue 

Where  never  bird  or  eagle  flew. 

He  lords  it  o'er  the  sullen  earth; 

The  mountains  yield  their  precious  ore, 

While  golden  treasures  have  their  birth 

WThere  barren  plains  unrolled  before, 

The  ocean  blue,  to  Polar  brim. 

Can  veil  no  secrets  from  his  eye; 

He  measures  earth  and  heavens  dim, 

He  weighs  the  planets  floating  by. 

As  yet  no  limit  hath  been  found 

To  stay  this  proud  arch-angel's  lust, 

But  on  he  moves,  a  god  uncrowned — 

The   wonder   of  this  planet's  dust. 


106  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

A   REFLECTION 

The  man  who  has  a  dreadful  appetite, 
Has  not  a  friend  or  coin — no  bread  or  meat. 
The  rich  repine  where  chandeliers  are  bright, 
With  countless  kinds  of  dainties  piled  in  sight, 
And  swear  like  knaves  because  they  cannot  eat. 


SUNDAY  NIGHT  AT  SHILOH 

Like  some  tornado  launched  upon  its  course, 

That  wave  of  war  moved  on  with  fearful  force, 

They  fierce  assailed  our  lines,  from  wing  to  wing, 

With  ball  and  shell,  with  musketry  and  sword; 

They  charged  as  fiends  to  deeds  of  murder  spring, 

And  one  huge  mass  in  heedless  fury  poured 

To  storm  our  guns;  they  scorned  our  leaden  rain; 

They  rushed  like  maniacs  across  their  slain. 

"Bull's  Run!     Bull's  Run!"  defiantly  they  cried, 

A  burst  of  thunder  to  their  vaunts  replied. 

Began  the  day  in  darkness  to  expire; 

Our  cannons  belched  forth  streams  of  smoke  and  fire — 

Hurled  hissing  loads  of  death;  our  muskets  blazed; 

Like  silhouettes  traced  on  a  lurid  cloud, 

Fought  cannoniers  with  hate  and  passion  crazed, 

One  moment  lost  amid  their  battle  shroud; 

Then  as  it  swiftly  flamed  or  slowly  raised, 

Their  forms  were  lined  in  vivid  glory  there. 

The  firm  hill  trembled  and  the  smoky  air 

Was  torn  with  iron,  lit  with  fuse  and  shell. 

In  swarms  the  whizzing  bullets  fell. 

Soldiers,  with  demoniac  zeal  inspired, 

With  frantic  speed  drove  down  their  balls  and  fired. 

Two  sullen  gun-boats  on  the  flood  below, 

With  monster  missiles  raked  the  startled  foe. 

That  hill-top  seemed  a  roaring,  seething  hell — 

A  whirlwind  breathing  death,  and  smoke  and  flame. 

Then,  sudden  as  the  fearful  tempest  came, 

It  ceased — a  warlike  burst  of  cheers  arose. 

We  had  preserved  our  guns,  position,  fame — 

Triumphantly  repulsed  our  savage  fees. 

As  darkness  hid  the  bloody  scenes  of  day, 

Our  broken  army  massed  in  firm  array, 

And  yet,  for  miles,  its  fallen  soldiers  lay 

From  where  the  camps  were  stormed  that  fatal  morn, 

To  where  the  waters  hid  our  dead  in  scorn. 

An  awful  silence  filled  the  solemn  wood 

Where  guard,  reserve  and  watchful  sentry  stood, 


I  I)  VLS    OF    BO  HEM  I  A  107 


Nor  inea.ii'T  camp-fire  cast  its  dang'rous  ray 
\Vhrre,  on  the  earth,  exhausted  thousands  lay. 

All  horrid  scenes  marred  melancholy  night. 
Like  fiery  ^Etna  in  spasmodic  play  — 
To  banish  sleep  with  danger  and  affright  — 
Our  cannons  hurled  terrific,  massive  shells 
Amid  the  foe;   with  almost  human  yells  — 
With  fiendish  force,  they  tore  their  dismal  way, 
To  waken  sleepers  with   Plutonian  screams, 
Or  slay  our  foes  in  midst  of  peaceful  dreams. 

It  seemed  once  more,  as  writ  in  epics  old, 

That  gods  in  anger  viewed  our  mortal  war, 

For  Nature's  thunders  through  the  midnight  rolled, 

Avenging  lightnings  flung  their  bolts  afar, 

The  wind  went  howling  through  the  hollow  wood, 

Cimmerian  darkness  o'er  each   army  spread; 

On  dying  men,  upon  the  passive  dead, 

Chill  torrents  fell,  to  flow  with  human  blood. 

From   eve  to  dawn   War's   energies  were  plied. 

Flotillas  bore  across  the  swollen  tide 

Our  comrades  of  the  Cumberland,  whose  mien 

In  truth  was  bold,  for  they  were  fearless  men 

As  e'er  won  tribute  from  a  soldier's  pen. 

Morn  saw  a  grand,  imposing  martial  scene 

Lit  by  the  rising  sun's  resplendent  sheen. 

Unmindful  of  the  dreadful  slaughters  o'er, 

In  rival  armies,  on  that  lonely  shore, 

Eighty  thousand  men   in  lines  of  battle  wheeled, 

And  mingled  war-cries  o'er  the  bloody  field. 

Our  host  advanced  and  vengeful  battle  gave. 

War's  music  rang  —  the  thunder  of  the  guns; 

The  cheers,  the  tumults,  of  our  legions  brave. 

With  force  as  vast,  and  scornful  of  the  grave, 

In  onset  came  the  South's  impassioned  sons. 

It  needs  no   lofty  or  pretentious  lay 

To  limn  the  scenes  of  that  immortal  day. 

The  foe  put  forth  his  power  and  his  pride, 

The  flower  of  his  host  in  combat  died; 

From  ridge  to  ridge  his  beaten  hordes  were  driven; 

Long  ere  the  sunset  tinged  a  stormy  heaven, 

The  slaughter  ceased;  the  last  loud  cannon  pealed; 

In  rout,  alarm,  Rebellion's  legions  fled; 

The  groves  were  filled  with  wreck  of  battle  red  — 

With   fallen  heroes  —  wounded  —  dying  —  dead  — 

For  twice  ten  thousand  men  bestrewed  the  field 

Which  these  heroic  armies  battled  for. 

All  fearful  scenes  the  woods,  the  vales,  revealed. 

Our  final  cheers  of  triumph  rang  afar, 

To  close  an  awful  drama  of  the  war. 


108  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

THE  OCEAN  SHORE 

If  cares   assail   rove  by  the   sea. 

Its  friendly  gales  will  cool  a  brow 

That  melancholy  darkens  now — 

Roam  by  the  sea,  the  changeful  sea. 

More  beautiful  than  Art  can  be, 

Sublimest  of  terrestrial  things; 

Now  stilled   in   silent  majesty, 

Or,  if  the  .tempest-minstrel  sings, 

It  leaps  to  wrath  with  surges  curled, 

That  burst  to  foam.     Hark  to  its  roar 

That  echoes  till  the  mountains  hoar 

Sway  trembling  where  its  tidals  pour — 

Its  foamy  floods  in  anger  hurled 

On  ramparts  reared  of  adamant; 

The  storm-wraith  shrieks,  the  breakers  chant, 

And  fierce  the  waters  wild  are  whirled. 

Roam  by  the  wide,  eternal  sea — 

The  wonder  of  our  moving  world. 


LO!  THE  BRIDEGROOM  COMETH 

In  the  Spring  an  old  man's  fancy 

Slyly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love. — Tunison. 

Why  has  he  married  in  such  haste? 

An  opportunity  was  embraced. 

He  was   lonely,   melancholy,   chaste; 

All  round  him  was  a  desert  waste 

If  no  Eve  its  bowers  graced, 

And  so  he  married  in  some  haste. 


While  foes  denounce  and  prudes  decry, 
Grandfathers    still    to    Hymen    fly. 
While    four    grandchildren    shout, 
And  mundane  things  turn  inside  out, 
With   heart  elate   his   conjugal  mate 
Dines  on  golden  plate. 
Ah,   me!    it's   great — 
It's  truly  great. 


Of  our  lonely  and  amorous  Autocrat  a  lady  delegate  to  a 
Nebraska  convention  said: 

"He  endears  himself  to  us  because,  in  so  brief  a  time,  he 
has  been  a  widower,  lover,  bridegroom,  and  husband,  a 
father-in-law  and  a  grandfather,  and  soon,  if  the  fates  are 
kind,  he  may  be  lord  of  the  whole  earth." 


IDYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  109 

LLANO  LSTATADO  FIFTY  YEARS  AGO 

Here  Espejo  campaigned  in  Spanish  days. 

A   vasty   plain   beneath   an   austral   sun — 

A   waste  unrolling   'neath    Inferno's    blaze. 

In  aeons  past  its  waters  lost  their  ways, 

Its  fountains  fled  in  vapors,  one  by  one. 

A  melancholy  Sphinx  would  brood  content 

Amid  this  treeless  region  still  as  death. 

While  Toltec  empires  to  oblivion  went, 

It  bowed  beneath  a  hot   Sirocco's  breath, 

It  spread  unchanged;    eternal  silence  was 

All  round  its  plains — reached  o'er  them  like  a  pall. 

It  seemed  outside  the  pale  of  Nature's  laws. 

Its  border  was  to  men  a  fatal  wall 

That  few  might  wander  o'er  and  yet  repass. 

It  withered    'neath  an  olden  curse.     Alas 

For  fugitive,  at  sudden  peril's  call, 

Who  in  its  bosom  closed  his  dangr'ous  flight. 

It   frighted   peaceful   stars  of  night; 

By  day  the  sun  smote  o'er  it  with  his  might. 

A  brighter  era  dawns — rich  vineyards,  grain, 

Green  groves,  will  shine  upon  this  boundless  plain; 

The  crystal  streams  will  find  their  ways  again. 

This  gloomy  riddle  of  an  age's  flight 

A  race  assails,  at  whose  decree  the  rain, 

The  fires,  the  forces  of  the  skies — will  bow, 

And  here  supreme  will  happy  Ceres  reign, 

Though   all   is   hopeless   desolation   now. 


DESOLATION  OF  TYRUS 

O,  Tyrus,  enthroned  in  the  midst  of  the  sea, 
Grown  haughty  with  gems,  with  purple  and  gold, 
Thy  heart  with  beauty  and  splendor  is  bold — 
Who  shall  avert  desolation  of  thee? 

How  vain  are  thy  walls,  O  beautiful  isle! 
Thy  battlements  hoary  with  old  renown. 
The  spoiler  will  soon  thy  temples  defile, 
The  flames  will  enfold  each  glorious  pile, 
Thy  towers  be  hurled  in  the  green  waves  down. 

In  thy  courts  and  squares  the  flowerets  bloom, 
They  fill  with  odors  the  indolent  air, 
But  thy  royal  halls  have  a  look  of  gloom, 
No  mirth  is  heard  in  the  lordliest  room, 
No  sound  of  joyance  is  echoing  there. 
Shall   sirens   in  robes  of  Tyrian   fold, 


110  .SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

In  voluptuous  garbs  of  colors  gay, 
Appease  the  victor  of  resolute  mould 
Who  will  come  to  tear  thy  towers  away? 

The  scepter  has  passed  from  Phoenician  seas, 
A  crown  been  hurled  from  a  radiant  brow; 
Calamity  broods  on  the  wailing  breeze. 
The  merchants  of  isles  will  jeer  at  thee  now: 
Aha!  what  city  so  fallen  as  thou?" 

In  vain  to  the  gods  do  the  great  ones  call, 
In  vain  in  thy  temples  high  priests  implore. 
Weep!    Wail!   for  thy  terrible  fall. 
Ships  will  go  out  on  the  voyage  no  more, 
But  blood  of  thy  sons  will  crimson  thy  shore. 
"Ai!  Ai!"  the  billows  are  moaning  of  thee, 
Tyrus  will  fall  in  the  midst  of  the  sea. 


A  SCENE  AT  SHILOH 

[See  Job's  war  horse  in  Prose  Addenda.] 

Some  cannons  left  us  by  the  foe — 
These  brazen  pieces  in  a  line. 
They   mark  an  army's   overthrow, 
For  here  it  gave  up  in  dismay 
Before  the  charge  that  won  the  day. 
Fine  rebel  guns — as  fair  they  shine 
As  when  foes  wheeled  them  in  array, 
In  stormy  prowess  to  defend. 
They  roared  away  to  bitter  end, 
And  round  them  lie  the  gunners  bold 
Who    fought    so    hard    this    hill    to    hold. 
Those  fellows  died — they  would  not  yield- 
To  hold  one  spot  of  Shiloh's  field. 
Here  lies  a  lad  who  warred  it  well — 
Perhaps  a  mother's  only  son — 
Stretched  out  beside  his   captured  gun, 
With  sleeves  rolled  up,  ramrod  in  hand, 
So  youthful,  stern — proportioned  well — 
The  look  upon  his  face  is  grand. 
It  seems  a  pity  that  he  fell. 
I  tell  you,  boys,  this  war  is — well, 
Enough  to  make  a  devil  smile. 
The  very  grass  with  blood  is  red. 
And  all  around  fine  horses  pile 
The  gory  scene — most  of  them  dead. 
The  noble  brutes,  they  seem  to  know 
There's  peril  where  they  see  the  foe, 
But  face  the  musketry,  the  shell, 


H)YI.S    OF    BOHEMIA  111 

And    other   music  just  as  well 
As  bravest  of  the  soldiers  do. 
And  how  we  treat  them  wounded,  too. 
\\v  let   them  lie,  to  live  or  die, 
Or  shoot   them   as  we  saunter  by, 
And  half  begrudge  so  base  a  shot. 
But  what  a  burst  of  tender  thought 
O'er  brutes  in  woe,  when  soldiers  true 
(Their  bodies  turn  yon  hillside  blue) 
Are  lying  now  just  where  they   fought, 
By  thousands  o'er  this  bloody  field, 
With  foes  to  share  their  dreary  lot. 
For  miles  unhappy  wounded  strew 
The  woods  around.     All  hearts  are  steeled 
O'er  brutal  scenes  that  speedy  blunt 
Each  finer  sense.     Grief  will  not  serve. 
Where  none  may  from  stern  duty  swerve, 
A  man  who  cannot  muster  nerve 
Has  no  business  at  the  front. 


ALOTIPIQUE 

[From    "Sun    Worship    Shores" — lost    in    San    Francisco's 
burning.  | 

I   find  alone  a   ruined   hall, 

With  fallen  dome,  vine-covered  wall — 

Its  plazas  bright  with  hues  of  gold; 

The  groves  that  wave  in  splendor  round, 

Seem  portions  of  some  noble  ground 

Where  beauty  flourished  manifold. 

There  is  a  perfume  of  the  wild, 

An  odor  sweet  and  undefiled, 

Floats  to  the  gates  of  this  old  hall. 

I  know  not  whence  it  may  arise, 

What  wood  exhales  it  to  the  skies, 

What  wind  expands  it  over  all. 

And  yet  'tis  sent  and  ever  sent, 

Suggesting  aisles  of  vast  extent,  - 

Where  limpid  pools  of  water  lie; 

Where  flowers  bloom  in  masses  dense, 

Whose  odors  pall  the  weary  sense, 

Whose  colors  vex  the  jaded  eye. 

But  sadness  reigns — the  lord  is  cold 

Who  lavished  here  his  hoards  of  gold, 

His  lemans  gay  are  valley  mold. 

The  wine-cup  shines  no  more  within; 

Xo  revel  sounds,  nor   music  peals, 

Nor  sirens  joy   in  ways  of  sin. 

Xo  vestige  here  the  past  reveals, 

But    reptiles    crawl    where    Beauty's    train 


112  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Moved  proudly  on,  and  ravens  wheel 
Where  noble  knights  wore  shiny  steel — 
For  Nature  claims  her  own  again. 
Who  dwelt  herein?     A  Spanish  chief 
Who  passed  his  age  in  grandeur  brief, 
To  sate  at  last  a  Borgia's  lust? 
Who  wasted  gold  like  idle  dust, 
And  made  some  native  lord  his  slave? 
Some  free  lance  of  the  ocean  wave, 
Who  came  to  slay  the  Spanish  thief? 
What  matters  now  if  love  or  fame 
Upon  each  mind  held  higher  claim? 
Each  had  the  bauble  of  his  day, 
And  lived  his  life  and  passed  away. 


A  ROVER'S  ADIEU 

"In  thy  dark  eye's  splendor, 
Where  the  warm  light  used  to  dwell, 
Weary  looks,  yet  tender,  ^ 

Speak  thy  last  farewell." 

Our  summer  barks  rode  tranquil  seas; 
We   idly   lashed   them  side  by  side. 
In  vain  their  sails  allured  the  breeze 
That  came  not  as  such  gales  as  these, 
To  die  upon  the  waters  wide. 

Our  summer  barks  rode  stormy  seas; 
We  lashed  them  firmer  side  by  side, 
For,  O  fair  love,  we  did  not  please, 
Though  hurricanes  swept  o'er  the  seas, 
To  cast  them  loose  till  scenes  like  these 
Might  prove  the  bitter  storms  defied. 

Lo!  now  we  part,  no  more  to  sail, 
As  we  have  sailed,  lashed  side  by  side. 
There  is  no  grief  will  now  avail, 
And  either  heart  might  faint  or  fail 
If  gentle   thoughts  should  now  prevail, 
So,  fling  to  breeze  each  snowy  sail, 
And  bear  away  o'er  waters  wide. 

Therefore,  O  love,  with  gallant  heart, 
I   bid  you   now   a   long  adieu. 
Let  no  bright  tears  in  sadness  start, 
To   lend  to  Grief  a   keener  dart 
As  far  we  thread  the  waters  blue, 
But  strive,  O  love,  with  gracious  art, 


1  DVLS    OF    BOHEMIA  113 

To  hide  the  wounds  the  fates  impart, 
And  heed  alone  the  cruel  chart 
That  guides  us  on  the  ways  we  rue. 
Some  day,  perchance,  on  happy  seas, 
We'll  meet  once  more  with  kindred  breeze, 
And   find  each   loving  heart   is  true. 


RILING  MOTIVES 

Most  human  tales  this  gloomy  moral  prove — 
The  fear  of  men  is  better  than  their  love. 
Each  battles  to  achieve  his  chosen  ends; 
Good  will  and  interest  make  the  best  of  friends. 


THE  WORLD  WAR 

[See  Note  in  Prose  Addenda.] 

A   haughty   apparition    came 
To  portals  of  the  Hall  of  Fame.   • 
He  waved   the  brazen  doors  aside. 
"Now  halt  you  there,"  the  warder  cried, 
"And    humbly   stand,    submissive    bow. 
To  enter  here  what  claim  hast  thou?" 

"To  set  the  abject  races  free, 
I  slew  the  Austrian  despot's  son — 
The  prince  the  crown  descended  on — 
And   mighty   things   were   caused   by   me. 
I  set  the  sluggish  world  ablaze, 
The  heavens  burned  from  sea  to  sea; 
Great  armies  moved  upon  their  ways, 
For  armed  men  by  millions  rose. 
The  banded  nations  fought  their  foes. 
I  set  the  human  race  at  war. 
The  vasty  planet  felt  a  jar. 
Since   earliest   dawn   of   strifes   of  yore 
Ne'er  had  Mars  such  rule  before. 
I  broke  the  seal — it  was  to  be. 
Now  ope  your  vaunted  gates  to  me." 

Far  off  was  heard  the  combat's  din. 
A  sullen   gong  in  signal  rung, 
And  wide  the  gilded  doors  were  swung. 
The  spectre  bowed  and  entered  in. 


114  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 


THE  COWBOY  SAID 

If  you've  got  the  Mighty  Dollar  in  your  clothes, 
You  needn't  worry  much  how  the  season  goes, 
Nor  care  a  bloody  red  for  former  friends  or  foes. 
Take  your  noble  ease — forget  your  many  woes. 


CLEAKING  THE  COAST  OF  TEXAS 

[1871.]    ' 

The  crescent  shores  are  dazzling  bright 

Beneath  the  sunset's  glow, 
And,  deluged  with  the  yellow  light, 
The  distant  headlands  woo  the  sight, 
As  gleaming  o'er  the  billows  white 

They  check  the  ocean's  inward  flow. 

Slow  sinks  the  Sun  in  gorgeous  west, 
Obscured  behind  his  golden  fleece; 

The  lambent   glory   round   his   crest 

Sinks  on  the  ocean's  lonely  breast, 

And  lights  the  surge's  wild  unrest 

Till  Night  commands  the  pageant  cease. 

Then  swift  the  clouds  sweep  o'er  the  sky, 

Responsive  to  a  typhoon's  roar; 
The  angry  waters  struggle  high, 
And  vainly  seeks  the  weary  eye 
To  pierce  the  gloomy  wastes  that  lie 

Between  it  and  the  fading  shore. 

The  vessel  plunges  on  its  way, 
Our  native  clime  once  more  is  past. 

Our  path  is  through  the  ocean  spray; 

And  where  the  fearful  breakers  play, 

And  where  the  whirlwind  seeks   its  prey, 
We  still  must  fly  before  the  blast. 

Perchance  the  gale  that  drives  us  on 

May  sweep  us  to  our  doom; 
Perchance  the  stars,  so  pale  and  wan, 
May  see  the  last  lorn  prospect  gone, 
And  ere  the  light  of  laggard  dawn 

Our  minute  gun  may  boom. 

Ah!  fiercer  yet  the  tempest  swells, 

As  darker  yet  the  heavens  grow; 
A  deeper   shade  o'er   midnight  tells, 
The  blast  shrieks  like  a  demon's  yells; 


IDYLS    OF    BO  HEM  I  .\  115 

Dread  thunders  rumble  forth  their  knells 
In    monodies   of  woe. 

Ah!   what  a  scene  on  which  to  gaze — 

An    austral   ocean   torn   to   foam, 
While  mountain  high  the  billows  raise, 
And    in   its   lurid   splendor   plays 
The   baleful   lightning's   angry  blaze, 

Imperious  in  its  cloudy  home. 

In  fragments  hang  the  bursted  sails, 
The  masts  bend  low  but  do  not  break;- 

The  sternest  eye  a  moment  quails, 

The  warmest  cheek  a  moment  pales, 

The  firmest  heart  a  moment  fails, 
And  nerves  ^f  iron  shake. 

But  true  the  oak  as  massive  steel, 

Back  to  its  place  it  springs  again, 
And  while  the  sullen  thunders  peal, 
And  ghastly  horrors  round  us  steal, 
And  frighted  cravens  frenzied  kneel, 

Down  sweep  the  storms  of  frozen  rain. 

The  slipp'ry  deck  with  ice  is  laid, 
Beware  the  surge  that  sweeps  it  o'er, 

For  vain  the  hand  that's  reached  for  aid, 

And  vain  the  cry  for  succor  made, 

When  hero  hearts  become  afraid 
That  never  cringed  at  death  before. 

Some  hideous  power  directs  the  gale, 

Some  hellish  spirit  seems  to  reign; 
Above  the  prow  the  waters  scale, 
And   should  the  flimsy   hatches  fail, 
Our  fate  may  form  some  solemn  tale 

To  warn  the  daring  from  the  main. 

But  gallant  forms  spring  up  the  mast; 

They  cling  to  yards  that  dip  the  spray; 
And  while  the  ship  is  hurled  and  cast 
As  though  each  moment  were  its  last, 
They  furl  the  canvas  from  the  blast, 

And  set  the  hurricane  at  bay. 

Soon  torrid  shores  will  crest  the  wave, 

Arrayed  in  thousand  peerless  dyes. 
Bright  suns  will  pave  the  Sea's  blue  nave; 
Then  rave,  ye  stormy  tempests,  rave. 

And   waft   us   to  that   Paradise. 


116  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 


THE   TEMPLE   OF   PATIENCE 

These  words  adorn  its  lofty  portals  wide: 
"I  conquer  Fame,  and  all  in  earth  beside; 
I  baffle  Fate — ay,  mock  at  Fortune  blind. 
Who  enters  here  leaves  all  his  woe  behind. 


TO  THE  PLANET  MARS 

[Composed  at  night  on  a  skirmish  line  at  Shiloh.     I  then 
thought  Mars  was  a  t>all  of  fire.] 

Red  star  of  War!   while  armies  sleep, 

To  march  to  slaughter  at  the  dawn, 
'Tis  mine  a   faithful   watch  to  keep, 

Lest  suddenly  the  foe  come   on. 

I   peer   into    the   gloomy   wood, 

Alarmed  by  some  portentous  sound, 
Then  gaze  on  thee,  red  orb  of  blood, 

Whose  beams  the  warring  world  confound. 

O  from  among   the  stars  retire, 

Elsewhere  send  forth  thy  rays  malign, 

Thou  baleful  globe  of  restless  fire, 

Man's  blood  is  poured  for  thee  like  wine. 


THE  "NEW  DAY" -1920 

Harem  rule  has  certainly  come — 
Twenty-five  million  solid  votes! 
Preachers,    pedagogues    and    petticoats! 
'Twill   surely   put  us  on  the  bum. 


BEULAH  LAND 

Our  myths  and  fables  much  deceive. 
The  best  of  creeds  is — disbelieve. 


EUINS  OE  PALENQUE 

When  races,  empires,  disappear — 

How  vain  the  pitiful  career 

Of  one  mere  idle  dreamer  here. 


[DYLS   OF  BOHEMIA  117 

"HACK    TO    TIIK    FARM" 

Civilization  begins  and  ends  with  the  plow.— 0.  M.  Roberts. 

Lik»    a   Chinese  gong, 
(  With  chorus  wrong) 
The  milkmaid's  song 
Conies   floating  along. 

With  many  distresses, 
Fat   shepherdesses 
In  decollete  dresses 
.Jump    like   frogs 
Through  barnyard  messes. 
Bulls  and  rams  and  geese, 
Chickens  and   ducks  and  dogs, 
Butter  and  eggs  and  grease; 
Smells  and  odors  that  never  cease 
From  stuff  that  makes  the  soil  increase; 
The  muttered  grunt  of  ravenous  hogs, 
Bray  of  mules  in  shadeless   pens; 
Noisy  screech  of  guinea  hens; 
Giggle  and   howl  of  visiting  friends, 
The  story  long  that  never  ends — 
Babel  and  clamor  that  never  mends! 

Cincinnatus  left  his  plow 

To  put  his  zeal  to  better  things; 

Our  Putnam  did,   (there  was  a  row — 

He  fought  against  the  kings;) 

And  Robert  Burns  some  ploughing  tried; 

He  feigned  in  this  to -feel  a  pride,  ^ 

But  quit  the  job — O  thoughtful  Bob — 

To  soar  on  Fancy's  wings. 

However  fine  the  tale  may  be, 

No  agricultural  slob  was  he. 

The  poet  oft  deceptive  sings. 

Mouths   must   be    filled, 

Earth  must  be  tilled; 

It  is  a  toil  that  has  to  be, 

And   yet,   while   human    life   is    free, 

Immortal  gods!   no  farmer  life  for  me. 


RETl'KN    OF   TIIK   DOniH   BOYS 

[1919] 

In  triumph  wear  the  victor's  wreath 
Fair   Woman    twines   with   trembling   hand; 
At  Beauty's  call  men  march  to  death, 
And  safety  crowns  a  menaced  land. 


118  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

A  WISCONSIN  SCENE 

Ambrosial  hills,  on  either  hand, 
Are  green  with  crowns  of  old,  primeval  trees; 
Fair  wheat  fields  waver  with  a  fitful  breeze, 
Or,  lit  with  gold,  the  tall  blades  idly  stand. 
The  ring-dove  mourns  above  this  northern  land — 
All  'round  its  placid,  sunny  landscapes  please. 
Down  yonder  vale,  as  framed  in  groves  of  green, 
Behold   an    inland   sea's   wide   waters   blue, 
Like  some  rare  painting  of  a  view  marine 
From  subtle  hand  of  some  old  master  true. 
On  high  the  massy,  snowy  clouds  are  seen 
Slow  floating  through  the  summer  heavens  blue. 


WALT   WHITMAN  VERSE 

The  Dictionary  man  says  a  monomaniac 

Is  one  who  is  crazy  on  one  subject. 

Machine  poets  are  monomaniacs, 

And   some  are  dipsomaniacs. 

They  imagine  the  stuff  they  write 

Is  poetry,  when,  in  truth, 

It's  only  trash.     All  poets  are  crazy, 

But  doggerel-fiends  are  worst — 

Yea,  bugs  indeed.     They  go  the  limit. 

They  make  us  tired. 

They  put  us  on  the  ragged  edge. 

This  is  poetry,  a  la  Walt  Whitman. 

Walt  was  a  poet — once  in  a  while — 

In  spite  of  much  hog-wash  he  wrote. 


PROCRUSTEAN  DAYS 

Once  boldly  rose — but  now  with  shame— 

The  musical  wail  of  the  Kansas  mule. 

How  cheap  the  men  are,  meek  and  tame, 

In  this  crazy  land  that  women  rule. 

Down-trodden  Man  some  day  will  rise, 

And    wreck    this    fabric    most    unwise, 

And  start  a  Mormon   paradise. 

Of  the  two,  by  any   test, 

The  Mormon  plan  is  much  the  best. 

Alack-a-day!    with  language  vile, 

The  men  have  gone  to  Dead  Man's  Isle. 


IDYLS    OF    BOHEMIA 

JOHN    MKOWN's   REVERIE 

Prophetic  spells  around  me  fall, 

I  have  a  dream  of  things  to  be. 

I   hear  the  deep-toned  trumpets  call, 

And  drum-rolls  sound  from  sea  to  sea. 

I    hold    in   poise   a   giant   force 

That  might   reverse  this   Nation's   course; 

Deep  prisoned  in  my  fevered  brain 

Are  thoughts  I  now  would  voice  in  vain. 

Could  I  forsee  my  soul's  desire 

My  words  would  glow   like  mental  fire; 

In  passion  would   my  thoughts  be  poured 

Till  millions  woke  to  seize  the  sword. 

I    pierce    Oppression's    flimsy   veil — 

I  see  the  wrong,  I  hear  the  wail. 

O  impulse  pause!     O  passion,  stay! 

Remote,  afar,  is  action's  day. 


THE  PIOUS  (Hi AFTER 

When  a  time  of  trouble  comes 

The   pious   grafter  wakes. 

The  smoothest  of  all  bums, 

He  gathers   up    his   chums 

With  their  hymn  books  and  their  fakes; 

He  hollers  and  he  hums, 

He  bellows  and  he  drums 

Till  the  hemisphere  he  shakes; 

While  others  fight  for  mighty  stakes, 

He  gathers   in  the  money  that  he  makes. 


BYRON 

Genius,  Glory,   in  his  throne  room  sat. 
Feudal  baron,   lord,  aristocrat; 
Of  haughty  Norman  lineage  born, 
He  viewed  imperial  pomps  with  scorn- 
Sought  liberty  and  worshipped   that. 
No  fulsome  notes  debased  his  high  refrain, 
But  Freedom's  voice  rang  out  in  every  strain. 
He  left  his  fame,  his  haunts  of  ease — 
All  scenes  that  might  a  sluggard  please — 
To  die  in   Freedom's  holy  cause. 
For  this  he  won  the  world's  applause. 


120  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

ATTILA 

Born  beneath  an  evil  star, 
He  led  vast  hosts  in  clamorous  war — 
To  die  supine  in  Beauty's  fatal  spell. 
Ildico  wrought  her  purpose  well. 
A  rosier  cyprian's  footsteps  ne'er  fell 
Along  the  sunny  boundaries  of  Hell. 


THE  VILLAIN  DIED 

He  saw  that  rhyme  would  make  good  prose, 

Then  put  his  claws  into  my  verse. 

The  wreck  dismayed — it  caused  me  woes. 

For  this,  and  sorrows  worse, 

And  sundry  things  I'll  not  rehearse, 

With  fervent  lips,  in  language  terse, 

I  launch  on  him  a  poet's  curse. 

Let  none  a  poet's  wrath  deride — 
In  fifteen  months  the  villain  died. 


THE  FATE  OF  BRUCE  IMLAY 

[On  Sunday  evening,  April  14th,  1912,  the  steamer  Titanic 
went  down  with  1503  persons,  including  688  members  of  the 
crew,  and  great  numbers  of  women  and  children.     Superin- 
tendent Imlay  was  saved  in  a  life  boat.] 
Ignoble  choice  a  Briton  made 

When  mariners  were  bold,  and  women  were  afraid. 
Impending  death,  deep  fear  and  panic, 
Proved  his  soul  was  not  Titanic. 
A  shattered  vessel  reeling  in  the  sea, 
Was  not  the  place  for  coward  such  as  he. 
A  boat  awaited,  safety  was  in  flight; 
Dames  and  children,  beautiful  and  bright, 
He  left  to  wail  in  terror  and  affright, 
And  saved  himself — his  might  was  "right." 
Despised  by  all;   despised  by  Bruce  Imlay, 
He   sought   a   palace   hall    and    hid   away. 
Wines,  luxuries,  he  had;   the  mercenary  smiles 
Of  dainty  female  slaves,  whose  crafty  wiles 
Could  scarce  conceal  their  inward  scorn; 
In  drunkenness  and  ease,  from  day  to  day, 
He  wore  his  worthless  life  away, 
And  cursed  the  dismal  hour  he  was  born. 
Such  was   the   fate  of  Bruce   Imlay. 

"O  teach  boys  how  to  live,"  our  Mentors  cry. 
Yes,  and  also  teach  them  how  to  die. 


[DYLS   OF  BOHEMIA  121 

V.'IXTKR    IX    FLORIDA  STRAITS 

With   rapture's  eye,  a  silent  ocean  view, 

All  silvered  o'er  with  semi-tropic  beams; 

A  shoreless  wave  in  purple  splendor  gleams 

Beneath  a  canopy  of  tender  blue; 

The  gale  a  dying  breath  of  summer  seems. 

Its  pinions  bear  no  melancholy  sound. 

How  clean,  how  fair,  the  sapphire  sea  around. 

The  torrid  wave,  the  sky's  etherial  dome, 

In  beauty  blended,  form  proud  Nature's  home. 

We  .voyage   how   where   gray   De  Leon    sailed, 
Who  sought  a  fountain  of  eternal  youth. 
What  wonder  visionary  hopes  prevailed, 
That  Fancy   revelled   in  a  garb  of  Truth, 
That  mighty  chiefs  believed,  and  sailed  the  seas 
In  quest  of  wildest  of  weird  mysteries. 

We  dream  of  happiness,  when  mortal  pain 
Is  all  the  goal  our  weary  hearts  may  gain. 
We  mourn  apace,  then  fondly  dream  again 
Like  brave  De  Leon  and  his  knightly  men. 

Across  this  wave  in  stately,  stern  array 

De  Soto's  fleet  sailed  on  a  later  day. 

Far  zones  allured  that  rumor  paved  with  gold. 

Those  mail-clad  heroes  of  intrepid  mould 

For  toilsome  years  warred  through  unpleasant  lands, 

But  never  grain  of  gold  shone  in  their  hands. 

With  sorrow  worn,  De  Soto  found  a  grave 

Within  the  Mississippi's  turbid  wave — 

While  Famine  wasted  his  companions  brave. 

When  Spanish  power  passed,  this  ocean  bore 

Upon   its  waters  blue  a  people  strange 

From  every  nation,  isle  and  shore, 

Whose  dream  of  life  was  lawless  change. 

'Twas  here  the  Buccaneers  were  wont  to  roam 

Without  a  creed  or  king,  a  land  or  home. 


TIIK   (iKXIt'S  OF  GOOD  XATl'KK 

Caesar  shone  in  every  walk  of  life, 

And  in  a  ruthless  age  his  faults  were  few. 

Writer,  speaker,  statesman,  chief  in  strife, 
He  had  the  genius  of  good  nature,  too. 


122  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

THE   MINSTREL'S   ADMONITION 

[From  "The  Griefs  of  Bohemia."] 
Mad  chevaliers  and  singers  grave, 
My  life  hath  been  so  brief  a  span, 
I  scarce  may  name  what  most  I  crave — 
I  am   content  with  what  I  am. 
I  ask  but  simple  ways  of  peace, 
That  drowsy  sunshine  o'er  them  fall; 
That  roses  swoon  along  each  wall 
Where  odors  teem  and  sweets  increase, 
Nor  ever  Glory's  thrilling  note 
Above  the  scene  defiant  float, 
To  bid  its  dreamy  quiet  cease. 
I  was  not  born  'neath  martial  stars, 
I  do  not  court  Ambition's  bays, 
Nor  can  perceive  in  bloody  wars 
What  should  arouse  triumphant  praise. 
O  shun  corrupt  Ambition's  path, 
Abjure  the  slave's  low  greed  for  gold, 
And  sing,  O  bards,  in  gen'rous  wrath, 
To  make  the  fallen  races  bold. 
Aspire  to  reign  in  Danger's  hour, 
At  spotless   Honor's   high   command, 
But  draw  no  sword,  with  hireling  hand, 
In  lust  of  gold  or  thirst  of  power. 


PILGRIM  FATHER  TERCENTENARY 

I'm  very  weary  of  those  ancient  men, 
With  tales  of  how  and  why  and  where  and  when 
They  landed  on  a  wintry  shore, 
Three    hundred    years   ago    or   more, 
With  guns,  tall  hats  and  saintly  ways, 
And  spotless  characters  we  all  must  praise. 
They  made  of  piety  a  gruesome  fake, 
And   burnt   old   women   at   the  stake. 
"Allow   no   witch    to   live,"   they   cried; 
Then  torch  and  blaze  they  fast  applied. 
They  frowned  at  sin  and  merry  revels, 
And  flogged  old  men  to  cast  out  devils. 
They  were  so  good,  old  annals  say, 
They  would  not  kiss  their  wives  on  Sabbath  day. 
With   nasal  twang  and  nose  on  high, 
They  sang  their  hymns  to  stormy  sky; 
They  made  blue  laws  to  make  the  people  blue, 
And    cursed    the    land   with   theologic   stew. 
No  man  could  think,  a  thought  or  two— 
They'd  stick  him  in  the  stocks  at  once — 


IDYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  123 

Blasphemer,  demon,  wretch  or  dunce! 
They'd  make  him  quick  such  freedom  rue. 
The  only  thing  they  did  that  I  approve 
Was  this:   when  wives  forgot  to  love, 
But  made  a  bedlam  of  the  family  fold, 
They'd  call  such  dame  a  "common  scold," 
And  ere  her  water-proof  was   donned 
They'd  souse  her  in  the  village  pond. 
The  drunkard's  fate  they  did   deplore, 
They  preached  right  hard  against  his  booze, 
And  yet  a  drink  they'd  ne'er  refuse 
If  tendered  soft  behind  the   kitchen  door. 
'The  earth  belongs  unto  the  saints,"  they  said; 
'We  are  the  saints — the  Book  says  so." 
They  heeded  not  the  Indian's  complaints, 
But  took  his  land — a  hundred   miles  or  so — 
Then  gravely  knocked  him  on  the  head. 

I  thank  the  gods  the  Pilgrim  sires  are  gone, 
That  times  have  changed,  and  happy  earth  rolls  on. 


ST.  GEORGE'S  CHANNEL  ON  A  CLEAR  DAY 

The  glassy  tide  in  its  dormant  pride 

Spreads  boundless  beneath  the  sun, 
And  a  misty  haze  on  the  horizon  lays 

Like  the  smoke  of  a  battle  won. 
The  breezes  bland  from  Albion's  land 

Move   lazily   on   their  way 
Where  sea-nymphs  hid  imperiously  bid 

Meridian  splendors  play. 
There's  many  a  scene  with  shores  as  green, 

With  billowy  wastes  as  fair, 

Where  the   lineaments   bold   of  the  mountain   peaks 
cold 

Loom  out  on  the  dreamy  air; 
Where   Nature's  hand   in  characters   grand 

Has    written    her   emblems   of   might, 
And  the  sea  and  the  land  are  daintily  planned 

To  thrill  a  lone  heart  with  delight; 
And  the  eye  may  range  through  measureless  change, 

And   limitless  regions  of   light — 
But  choose  for  me  this  beautiful  sea 

As  it  glitters  beneath  the  sun, 
And  a  misty  haze  on  the  horizon  lays 

Like  the  smoke  of  a  battle  won. 


124  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

THE  BIG  BOOK 

If  •trusted   friends  betrayed, 

Put  it  in  the  Big  Book; 
If  clouds  of  grief  dismayed, 

Put  it  in  the  Big  Book. 
If  life  has  been  a  losing  game, 
And  you  have  partly  been  to  blame, 
Don't  hang  your  head   in  silly  shame, 

But  write  it  in  the  Big  Book. 
If  pleasures  past  some  worries  bring, 
And  sombre  shadows  round  you  cling 
Because  you  did   some   knavish  thing, 

Write  it  in  the  Big  Book. 
And  if  you  view  with  bitter  hate 
Some  clique  or  clan  degenerate, 
And  long  to  shoot  each  reprobate, 
Exude  your  wrath  in  words  of  weight 

And  put  it  in  the  Big  Book. 
O,  if  you  did,  or  didn't  do 
Some  craven   deed  or  impulse  true; 
If   memories,    your   soul    pursue 
Concerning  divers  things  you  rue, 
Put  it  in  the  Big  Book. 
If  life  itself  a  burden  grows, 
And  oft  you  pine  for  Death's  repose, 
Write   out    your    multitude    of   woes 

And  put  them  in  the  Big  Book. 
At  other  times  don't  ope  the  Book — 
Ne'er  give  the  cursed  tome  a  look, 
But   leave  the  stuff  you've  written  there 
For  moths  to  eat  and  bugs  to  tear. 
The  Big  Book  is  to  peace  opposed; 
Except  when  writing,  keep  it  closed. 


WOODROW  LOVES  THE  LIMELIGHT 

In  sunny  France,  in  storms  of  fight, 
Where  Kaiser  Bill  thought  might  was  right, 
What  did  you  learn,  my  gallant  wight? 

"I  learned,  alas!   in  storms  of  fight, 
That  fame  is  like  a  thief  at  night. 
Applause   of  men   is   ever   sweet. 
Let  History  its  tale  repeat. 
Robespierre,  so  fond  of  praise, 
Could  talk  and  talk  for  days  and  days 
Of  justice,  love  and  righteous  ways. 
Where  deadly  shell  with  fury  screeches, 


IDYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  125 

The  dough  boy  fast  a  shell-hole  reaches, 

And  ponders  over  Woodrow's  speeches. 

Where  clarions  ring  and  drummers  drum, 

And  folks  for  comfort  never  come, 

The  military   arguments 

Of  folks  that  live  in  canvas  tents, 

All  go  to  show,  'tis  only  this — 

In  battle  fierce  it's  hit  or  miss, 

And  Woodrow  loves  the  limelight. 

In  smoky  scenes  of  much  affright, 

Where  men  are  not  too  proud  to  fight, 

It  seems  an  observation  trite 

That  Woodrow  loves  to  talk  and  write, 

And  keep  himself  in  limelight." 


CIIAKLOTTK  CORD  AY 

"These  formalities  are  needless. 
I    killed    Marat."— Charlotte    Corday. 

O  strange  the  wondrous  music  of  her  tongue. 
Her  lofty  mjen  dismayed  those  ruffian  foes; 
Upon  her  cheeks  the  tints  of  roses  clung. 
Her  eyes— great,  lustrous  orbs!   like  stormy  night 
They  shone;  so  wild — so  wonderfully  bright! 
Beneath  long  lashes  flashed  magnetic  light. 
Around   alluring   lips  there  was  a   trace 
Of  gentle  sadness,  as  for  others'  woes — 
A  pity   Honor's   gen'rous   nature   knows. 
Despite  her  deed  she  had  an  angel's  face. 
About  her  shapely  neck,  so  pearly  white, 
Her  chestnut  hair  in   massy   ringlets  hung. 
Her    beauty    was    indeed    a    winsome    sight. 
Her  hand  was  small  as  e'er  a  minstrel  sung, 
And  soft  as  e'er  in  lover's  hand  was  laid — 
It  clove  a  monster's  heart  with  dagger  blade. 

A  while   the  low-browed  judge  in  silence  mused, 
With  daunted  look — with  wand'ring,  downcast  eye, 
As  though  he  fain  would  say  what  heart  refused. 
At  length  he  met  her  gaze,  with  air  confused. 
'She  slew  Marat,"  he  growled,   "and  so  shall  die." 

t 

She  smiled — it  was  a  sweet,  a  pensive  smile 
That   lingered  years  within  the  memory 
Of  those  around;   she  gave  no  vain  reply, 
But  moved   beside   the  waiting  armed   file 
That  led  her  out  in  girlhood's  bloom 
To  hide  her  beauties  in  a  felon's  tomb. 


126  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

AFTER  SHILOH 

How  balmy  was  the  forest  air, 

For  southern  Spring  moved  on  her  way 

With  snowy  blossom,  bloom  and  spray, 

Flung  round  her  pathway  ev'rywhere. 

The  mocking-bird,  in  frenzied  strain, 

Poured  forth  sweet  ecstasy  of  pain 

From    every    cool,    ambrosial    shade. 

Scenes  of  renown,  where  myriad  forms 

Were  laid  at   rest — in  silence  laid — 

When   storied   Shiloh's  awful   storms 

Of  war  were  o'er,  now  spread  arrayed 

In   carpets  of  rich   vivid   green 

Where  fairies,  angels,  might  have  strayed. 

How  winsome  Spring  breathed  o'er  the  scene — 

Robed   Slaughter's  home  in  happy  smiles. 

Huge  woods  were  clad  in  foliage  dense, 

And  shining  lines   of  snowy  tents 

Receded  far  through  sylvan  aisles. 

Cool  crystal  rills  in  quiet  poured 

Their  sinuous  ways  'tween  mossy  banks 

Where  late  deployed  impetuous  ranks — 

Where  sped  the  missile,  shone  the  sword. 

Where  War's  dun  breath  had  weighed  the  breeze, 

Was  Garden  of  Hesperides. 

Clear  was  the  bugle's  mellow  call. 
With  melody  it  seemed  to  fill 
The  drowsy   wood — then   slowly  fall. 
Colossal  camps  were  strangely  still. 
******* 

O  plan  absurd  of  Folly's  brain! 

An  army  brave  as  ever  shone 

On  Roman  field  or  Grecian  plain — 

That  o'er  the  European  main 

Had  hurled  a  tyrant  from  a  throne — 

Its  force  consumed  in  pageants  vain, 

In  petty  strife  or  vile  repose, 

In  all  the  arts  a  dullard  knows 

Until  a  wily  foe  had  flown. 

'Tis  vain  to  join  in  Glory's  chase, 

When  owls  usurp  an  eagle's  place. 


A  SOLDIER'S  LIFE 

Though  nigh  or  far  his  banners  range, 
Through  scenes  familiar,  scenes  all  strange, 
A  soldier's  life  is  ever  strife, 
With  wild  romance,  excitement,  startling  change. 


I  I)  V  L  S    O  F    B O  H  E  M  I  A  127 

TO  A  SOCIAL  CM  T>   FAR   AWAY 

There's  a  surging  sea  before  us, 

And  a  gloomy  waste  around, 
And  the  angry  heavens  o'er  us 

All    day   have   darkly    frowned, 
And  gales  that  seem  to  master 

All  things  that  meet  the  eye, 
But    drive   us    on   the   faster 

Where  sterner  dangers  lie.   • 
All  nature  is  in  travail, 

The  billows   e'en  complain, 
Then  who  shall  sneer  or  cavil 

With   cynical   disdain, 
If  I  shall  own  a  sadness 

As  Memory  portrays 
Those  scenes  of  glowing  gladness 

W»>  knew  in  other  days? 
Those  fleeting  scenes  of  pleasure 

That  sped  so  swift  away, 
When  Joy  filled  up  its  measure 

And   ev'ry   heart  was   gay; 
When  Youth  in  haughty  madness 

The  gauntlet  flung  to  care, 
And  never  sigh  or  sadness 

Could  hope  to  enter  there. 
We  crowned  the  hours  with  roses, 

Nor  marked  them  as  they  went, 
Xor  how  each   year  discloses 

Some  deeper  discontent; 
Xor   dreamed   how  soon  our  number 

Would  be  a  broken  thing, 
Or  who  would   lowly  slumber 

Beneath  the  flow'rs  of  Spring. 
We  heeded  not  the  morrow, 

Or   what    its    dawn    would    bring; 
We    feared   no    hand   of  borrow 

The   aching   heart   to   wring. 
Ah!  Grief  has  given  lessons 

We    may    not    soon   forget, 
And  time  has  thinned  our  numbers 

Since  last  in  joy  we  met. 
Then  fill  the  hours  with  gladness, 

And  revel  while  ye  may, 
For   life   is  full  of  sadness — 

O  whirl  it  swift  away. 


BUYING  TITLES 

"How  much  are  princes  now  per  head?" 
"A  million  dollars,  miss,"  he  said. 


128  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

THE  DELUSION  OF  CABRILLO 

[Discovery    of    California.] 

What  shall  we  call  this  weary  sunset  shore 

Imperial  Spain  hath  sent  us  to  explore? 

Camillo,   versed   in   poesy   and    song, 

Who  loves  romances — has  a  mien  of  woe, 

As  if  in  sorrow  for  some  grievous  wrong 

Wrought  in  the  golden  clime  of  Mexico, 

Presents  a  name  to  us,  most  noble  knights, 

And  California  is  the  rover's  choice. 

It   pleases  well — soft   as  my   lady's   voice, 

Mellifluous,  romantic,  too,  and  fine 

As  love  made  warm  with  rich  Castilian  wine; 

Suggestive  of  a  land  of  pure  delights, 

Of  golden  days;    of  love-lit,  starry  nights. 

Camillo  found  this  name  in  quaint  romance 

Of  olden  time — a  Saracenic  tale 

Of  Moorish  love — of  war's  unhappy  chance, 

And  sundry  ills  that  Paynim  joys  entail. 

This  barren  shore  is  worth  no  sov'reign's  claim. 

'Tis  lonely,  unadorned,  its  outlines  tame; 

Therefore  we'll  aid  it  with  Camillo's  name — 

The  province  California  meets  our  glance! 

A  savage  people  wander  to  and  fro 

Where  no  delicious  fruits  will  ever  grow; 

Where  not  a  note  of  human  pleasure  sounds, 

Where  even  blessed  water   scarce  abounds. 

There  is  no  trace  of  ore,  no  silver,  gold — 

No  palaces  that  we  might  rob  or  hold; 

There's    naught    that    avarice,    adventure    bold, 

Would  prize  in  all  these  pagan  vallies  lone. 

From    equatorial    clime,    to    poles, 

Par  as  we  roam  or  mighty  ocean  rolls, 

O  knights,  it  is  the  one  Gehenna  known. 

What  can  our  king  do  with  such  heathen  zone, 

But  send  his  friars  here  to  gather  souls? 

Make  angels  of  poor  California's  own? 

Array  its  native  sons  in  Roman  stoles, 

And  have  such  dreary  land  to  Hades  blown? 


A  STAGE  CHOEUS 

[On  the  stony  stage  road  to  Silver  Reef,  Utah,  in  1880.] 

Bumpity  bump! 
Bumpity  bump! 

O  lud  gud — 
Bumpity,  bumpity,  bump! 


[DYLS   OF   BOHEMIA  129 

COXCKXTRATKI)   LIK 
[Writr «'ii  before  the  World  War.] 
History   is  n   lie  agreed  upon. — Napoleon. 
The  crimes  and  follies  of  mankind. — Gibbon,    y 
"Happy  the  land  that  has  no  history." 

Egypt  was  great,  and  robbed  the  Asian  lands 
To  far  India's  line — robbed  Afric,  too — 
Burnt,  pillaged,  wasted  and  enslaved. 

With  temples,  palaces  and  royal  fanes, 
Thebes  reigned  imperial  a  thousand  years, 
And  golden  tribute  drew  from  many  lands. 

Assyria  plundered  wide,  also  Babylon. 

The  Persian  and  the  Mede  returned  the  bloody  call 

That  Egypt  made,  and  fiercely  robbed  and  slew. 

The  Greeks  consumed  the  Persian  hoards.     Also 

What  Egypt's  fallen  cities  yet  contained. 

The  Roman  crushed  the  Greek — and  half  the  world 
beside. 

The  Goth,  the  Vandal  and  the  busy  Hun 

The  Roman  robbed;  the  Danes,  the  Norman  knights, 

O'ercame  and  robbed  fair  Albion's  isle. 

The  Spaniards  robbed  Peru  and  Mexico. 

fhe  Anglo-Saxon   took   the  red  man's   land, 
(Which  he  had  seized  from  races  further  back). 

This  outline  rude  is  but  a  glimmer  of  the  tale 

That  tiresome  grows,  to  prove  that  might  is  right. 

All  petty  states  did  what  they  could,  as  chance  allowed. 

Devouring  other  petty  states,  as  in  the  sea 

Fish  of  size  the  smaller  fish  devour. 
"Eat  or  be  eaten!     Kill  or  be  killed!" 

Is  Nature's  law  to  creatures  of  the  wood. 

Throughout  the  world,   in  ev'ry  zone  and  land, 

Man's   ancient  avocation   is   pursued, 

And  he  most  bloody  of  all  beasts  of  prey. 


WIIKN   A  WIDOWS  VERY  FAIR 

A  wise  man  says  that  when  a  widow's  very  fair 

Supreme  attention  should  be  paid  the  am'rous  queen — 

That  she  should  to  a  monastery  cell  repair, 

A  doting  husband  soon  disport  upon  the  scene, 

Or  she  be  buried  well  out  in  some  valley  green. 

This  wise  man  says  a  special  widow  case  requires 

Attention  ere  a  husband's  funeral  day  expires. 

An  old  and  ugly  widow,  who  is  rated  sour, 

May  be  left  at  large,  seeking  whom  she  may  devour. 


130  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

THE  TOMB  OF  BYROX 

[In  1871  I  visited  Newstead  Abbey — the  home  of  Byron; 
the  old  church  at  Hucknall-Torkard  that  entombs  the  poet's 
dust;  and  Annesly  Hills,  the  home  of  "Byron's  Mary."] 

The  gloomy  church  in  slow  decay 

Seems  fitted  for  his  last  repose, 
For  centuries  have  passed  away 

Since  first  its  humble  walls  arose, 
And  yet  in  homely  strength  it  stands, 

A  monument  of  cycles  flown; 
Ah!   withered  are  the  faithful  hands 

That  reared  aloft  its  ancient  stone. 
Around  its  walls,  now  aged  and  hoar, 

A  thousand  graves  are  thickly  spread, 
Where  sleep  the  valor  and  the  lore 

That  once  in  field  and  forum  led. 
Their   shattered   slabs,   beneath   the   s^in, 

Recount  no  tales  of  honors  past — 
Their  epitaphs  have  one  by  one 

Been  blotted  out  by  rain  or  blast. 
The    rose-flecked   vines,    in   mantles    wide, 

Stream  o'er   the  windows   stained   within, 
As  though   in   tenderness  to  hide, 

Their  images  from  outward  sin, 
And  as  the  breeze  with  gentlest  care, 

The  inflorescence  softly  sways, 
A  mournful  sigh  steals  on  the  air 

That  murmurs  of  departed  days. 
The  aisles  are  dim  with  softened  light, 

The  pillars  old  are  dusk  and  bare, 
And  here  and  there  a  tablet  white 

Records  whose  bones  are  crumbling  there. 
Strange  shadows  move   at   Fancy's   freak, 

And  silence  reigns  so  deep  and  dread 
'Twere  sacrilegious  but  to  speak, 

For  'neath  the  stones  on  which  you  tread, 
Secure   from   Slander's   venom   tongue, 

Or  ruthless  Hatred's  reeking  blade, 
Shrined  only  by  the  songs  he  sung, 

Britannia's  peerless  bard  is  laid. 


THE  MAIN  GUY 

Of  devils,  deities  and  fates, 
And  unseen  forces,  snares  and  baits 
That  shape  the  course  of  modern  States, 
The  mighty  Dollar  dominates. 


IDYLS    01      BOHEMIA  131 

RICHARD  THIRD 

[In  the  city  of  Leicester,  England,  on  a  barn  that  stood  on 
the  bank  of  the  river  Soar,  I  saw  a  tablet  that  read:  "Near 
this  spot  lie  the  remains  of  Richard  III.,  the  last  of  the 
Plantagenets,  14Sf>."  His  dead  body  was  thrown  into  the 
river  at  that  point.  | 

I  much  admire  that  fearless  English  king, 
Although  his  crimes  and   cruelties   I   hate. 
How  bravely  did  he  battle  Fate, 
And  make  his  warlike  island  kingdom  ring 
With  tumult  when  he  fell  from  high  estate. 
Resolved  he  fought  when  friends  and  vassals  fled — 
He  died  with  England's  crown  upon  his  head. 
Some  olden  tomes  his  cruelties  deny. 
Tis    writ    that    history    is    but   a    lie. 
Though  Venom  soiled  his  royal  fame, 
There's   none  assail   his   martial  name, 
Or  scoff  at  valor  shown   in  dying  hour. 
Though  gone  was  hope,  his  knights  and  power, 
He  wielded  arms,  with  demon  hate,  till  slain. 
Submission,  flight,  defeat,  won  his  disdain. 
Though  Fate  shall  pour  its  darkest  ills  on  me, 
Stern  Richard  shall  my  dauntless  model  be. 


ISLES   OF    FONSECA 

[From  "Sun  Worship  Shores."] 
Where   sunlit,   foamy   waves    expand 
Around  these  fair  volcanic  isles, 
Tall,  granite  peaks  adorn  the  land 
And  one  eternal  summer  smiles. 
A  lawless  rover  of  the  seas, 
In  sailing  o'er  Fonseca  blue, 
Once  well  declared  such  isles  as  these 
A  home  for  gods;  he  waved  adieu 
To  perils  on  the  Spanish  main, 
O'er  these  fair  scenes  to  careless  reign 
As  vassal  gay  of  sov'reign  Sun — 
Here  passed  his  days  in  am'rous  ease, 
And  wasted  gold  by  valor  won. 
For  glowing  native  girls  are  true, 
Where  blue  Fonseca's  waves  expand ; 
The  fruits  are  clad  in  golden  hue, 
The  fragrant  atmosphere  is  bland — 
O,  occidental  Cyclades! 
The  balmy  vales  and  seas  of  blue 
The  mind — the  soul — the  fancy,  please. 


132  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

KEXILWORTH 

A  castle  famous  in  proud  feudal  days, 

A  ruin  mantled  o'er  with  ivy  now. 

Weird  echoes  of  the  past 

Float  o'er  the  twilight  scene. 

Heard  you  the  clarion  peal? 

It  bade  the  vassals  arm. 

O  list  you  well — a  voice  proclaims 

The  stern  conditions 

Of  a  tournament-at-arms. 

The  neigh  of  battle  steeds, 

The  trumpet's  call, 

The  onset's  rush, 

The  ring  of  knightly  steel; 

A  burst  of  cheers — 

Gay  Beaut-y's  gentle  voice  of  praise, 

The  haughty  tones  of  royalty — 

All  these  I  hear. 

More  tender  notes 

Pervade   the  twilight  air — 

The  melody  of  lutes, 

The  song,  the  serenade; 

The  low,  impetuous  words 

Of   passionate   love. 

0  shrines  that  lure  me 

From   the  prairies  of  the  West- 
Bid  the  sails   of  my  bark 
Shine   far  o'er  purple  seas — 
The  tombs  where  Byron 
And  the  Bard  of  Avon  sleep, 
And  where  the  god-like  dust 
Of  proud  Napoleon  lies. 

1  pause  awhile 

Beneath  the  walls  of  Kenilworth, 

To  muse  on  tales 

Writ  by  the  Wizard  of  the  North. 


A  LARGE  VOLUME 

As  tiresome  years  departed,  one  by  one, 
The  brilliant  things  he  should  have  done, 
The  splendid  goals  he  might  have  won, 
The  cash  he  spent  in  merely  having  fun: 
The  awful  things  he  never  should  have  done, 
The  things  that  he  would  like  to  do — 
His  troubles  old  and  troubles  new — 
Would  make  a  book  to  weigh  a  ton. 
And  still  his  sad  account  a  while  must  run. 


[DYLS   OF   BOHEMIA  133 


THK    PEDAGOGUE'S    DRKAM 

A  conclave  of  diplomats, 

Of  whom  He  was  Which; 
A  palace  on  the  Bosphorus — 

Each  day  it  made  him  rich. 

An  imperial  war  fleet, 

By  the  Idiots  maintained; 
O'er  seraglio  and  city 

A  Caesar  he  reigned. 

The  whole  world  obeyed  him — 

Its  adoration  paid; 
His  soldiers  were  millions, 

To  make  the  folks  afraid. 

One  cold,  frosty   morning 

His  air  castle  grand 
Came  tumbling  to  pieces, 

At  Freedom's  command; 

And  the  pedagogue,  humbled, 

Like  an  ostrich  at  bay 
Ran  his  neck  in  a  sand  pile, 

And  wilted  away. 


GALVESTON  ISLE 

The  Mexic  sea  unrolls  in  beauty  far — 
No  canvas  glows  with  yonder  purple  hue. 
How  vain  is  Art  where  Nature's  glories  are: 
Who  shall  portray  the  restless  Ocean  blue? 
It  is  a   zone  of  dangerous   mischance; 
Of  mystery,  adventure  and  romance; 
Rich  in  its  lore  of  wild  and  wayward  life; 
Of  shipwreck,  peril,  bold  escape  and  strife. 
Perchance  in  pomp  across  this  vision  grand 
Cordova  sailed  for  Montezuma's  land; 
Unto  this  isle  Lafitte,  the  corsair,  came 
To  lead  his  outlaws  to  a  scene  of  fame. 
When  Britain's  navies  and  her  arms  essayed 
To  blight  our  shores  with  red  Invasion's  woes, 
The  corsair  gave  our  native  land  his  aid; 
With  hero  Jackson  tamed  our  British  foes — 
Then  burned  his  pirate  fleet  on  yonder  tide, 
Save  one  fair,  stately  ship,  the  "Ocean   Pride." 
With  chosen  chiefs  he  sought  remoter  seas — 
To  other  lands  left  lawless  memories. 
His  grave  is  on  a  lonely,  verdured  isle 
Where   torrid   seas   in   fadeless  glory   smile. 
This  very  shore,  beside  this  ocean's  flow, 
Was  trod  by  heroes  of  the  Alamo. 


134  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

IN  CUBAN  WATERS 

Slow  moves  the  vessel  on  her  weary  way, 
The  dying  breeze  scarce  fans  the  tide, 
And   rainbows   gather   o'er  the  spray 
That  feebly   dashes   from   her  side; 
No  surges   in  colossal  fury  play, 
Nor  lift  their  crests  in   foamy   pride. 
The  nautilus   scarcely   deigns   to   ride 
Upon   its    voyages   to   fairy   land, 
But  leans  upon  its  satin  side 
As  anchored   by  some  human   hand, 
And  lures  the  day-beams  as  they  glide 
From   sunny   sea  to   lovely   land. 
The  gorgeous  sky  with  brilliant  tints 
Is  grandly  rich  within  the  west, 
And  golden  rods  from  heavenly  mints 
Down  in   the   tide  are  deeply  pressed. 
The  land  lolls  in  the  drowsy  blaze, 
The  groves  hang  down  their  haughty  heads, 
The  mountains  blue  undaunted   gaze 
Whence  all  the  glow  of  splendor  spreads; 
And   such   a  beauty  gathers   round 
The  earth,  the  seas,  and  sunset  skies, 
I  wonder  if  a   soul   e'er   found 
I  A   fairer   clime    in    Paradise. 


NOT  HOMELESS 

The  foreign  lands,  the  mountains  and  the  sea; 
The  cities  great — hives  of  humanity — 
The   prairies  wild,  had  homes  for  me. 


SUN  WORSHIP  SHORES 

Sun-worship   zones   my   song  inspire. 
Colima  flames  with  crest  of  fire; 
Resound   afar    its    murmurs    hoarse. 
Land  of  romance!    where  scenes  transpire 
As  if  in  scoff  of  mortal  ire; 
The  tidal  wave   sweeps   on   its  course, 
The  firm  hills  move  with  Nature's  force; 
Yet,  0,  a  spell  of  beauty  reigns 
O'er  mountains,  ocean,  valleys,  plains. 
Why  rove  the  shores  of  Grecian  isles, 
Or    sail    the    blue    Venetian    wave, 
When  flood  so  fair  in  starlight  smiles? 
Why  o'er  Cisalpine  valleys   rave 
When  Zuma's  vale  the  eye  beguiles? 
O  Beauty's  home  is  on  this  shore — 
Who  well  surveys  will  roam  no  more. 


I  PVLS    OF    BOHEMIA  135 

D ANTON 

["My  name  is  Danton,  well  known  in  the  Revolution.  My 
abode  will  soon  be  nonentity,  and  my  name  will  live  in  the 
Pantheon  of  History."] 

It  was  an  era  wild  of   human   rage, 
When  Hatred,  Passion,  wrought  their  bloody  deeds 
Like  hungry  tigers  loosened  from  a  cage. 
Where  Tyranny  had  sown  its  baleful  seeds, 
The  whirlwind   swept   away   the    Feudal   Age. 
A  kingdom's  pillars  fell  like  withered  reeds. 

Voluptuary,  chief  in   reign  of   gloom, 
Whate'er   the  dark  mistakes  of   Danton  were, 
With  lion  heart  he  rose  to  meet  his  doom. 
His  fierce  demeanor  smote  his  foes  with  fear; 
His   fiery    lips    rained    forth   such    hate    severe, 
That   foemen   trembled    in    Death's   council   room. 
No   wretch   he   seemed,   appointed   for   the   tomb; 
No   fallen  ruler,   palsied  with  despair, 
But  some  high  judge  wrought  up  to  fury  there. 
So  near  his  courage  swayed  a  doubtful  scale, 
E'en  Terror's  monster  *,  with  abhorrent  air, 
Betrayed  alarm  lest  Danton  should  prevail. 
The  ordeal  o'er,  he  marched  with  fearless  mien 
To  brave   the   horrors   of  the   guillotine. 


*  Robespierre. 


A  VOrTIIFUL  THRENODY 

Earth  seems  a  Hell. 

Life  came  unasked, 

And  so  comes  woe. 

It   thickens  on   us, 

It  is  our   heritage. 

Goaded  by  desires 

Implanted  in  us, 

We  have   no  means   to   stay  them. 

We  bend  and  strive  and  strain, 

And    all    is    naught. 

I    denounce    existing    things — 

There  is  no  ruling  hand. 

A    gale    is    forth, 

Ominous    to    Man, 

Scattering  wide  disaster. 

A   whirl    of   ruin 

Roars  around    us, 

And  there  is   no  haven. 


136  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

FRANCE 

[1870.] 

O  bleeding  and   grand  yet  fallen  land, 

Whose  splendor  may  vanish  for  aye, 
What  touch  can  restore  the  masterly  hand 

That  pointed  thy  legions  a  magical  way 
To  triumphs  so  vast  the  world  stood  aghast? 

In  wonder  it  gazed  on  thy  towering  might, 
While  kingdoms  went  down  before  the  wild  blast 

That  fitfully  rose  from  tumults  of  fight. 
O,  if  the  wierd  Grave  could  assemble  thy  brave 

Embattled  beneath  the  great  Corsican's  glance, 
While  he  led  them  on  thy  glories  to  save, 

What  arm  could  arrest  their  haughty  advance? 
If  Helena's  lone  king  to  contest  could  spring, 

With  power  to  marshal  and  hosts  to  obey,  ( 

How  nations  would  tremble  and  Europe  would  ring, 

As  he  smota  the  stern  monarch  who  cumbers  thy 

way! 
O,  if  the  proud  dead  can  gaze  from  o'erhead, 

To  pity  thy  throes  of  terrible  pain, 
How  Napoleon  mourns  thy  majesty  fled, 

And  chafes  to  be  with  you  again! 
How  his  falchion  bright,  through  the  varying  fight, 

Would  flash  like  lightnings  of  God; 
How  the  foe  in  affright  would  fly  from  his  sight, 

Or    crouch    where   the    conqueror    trod! 
Destruction  would  spread  with  a  mantle  of  dead, 

The  fields  where   his   thunderbolts   fell, 
And  the  plains  where  his  vengeance  impetuous  sped 

Would  glow  like  the  portals  of  Hell! 
But  his  fierce  race  is  run,  his  work  is  undone — 

Lo!  Destiny  mocks  at  his  powerless  pain; 
An  eagle  that  soared  till  it  challenged  the  sun, 

Back  to  the  earth  must  flutter  again. 


MEXICAN  BORDER  IX  1916 

A  nation  of  cowards. — Judge  Lanclis. 
Though  Freedom's  cause  is  ever  right, 
We   hoist   a  flag  of   lily  white 
And  whine:     "We  are  too  proud  to  fight. 


NOVEMBER, 

Returns  compiled  as  best  we  can 
Disclose  that  Woodrow  "also  ran." 


IDYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  137 

IN    PARIS 

[1871.] 

My    thoughts   go   forth   in   warlike   rhyme 
To  martial   souls   of   every   clime; 
To  soldiers  of  each  rival  race, 
Each  loyal  to  the  cause  he  shares, 
And  faithful  to  the  flag  he  bears, 
And   brave  in  his  appointed  place. 
Their  varied  standards  I  admire, 
Their  signs  of  rank,  the  arms  they  wield, 
The   faultless   movements  they    acquire, 
Their  coolness  in  the  face  of  fire, 
Their  valor  on  the  battlefield. 
I  love  the  annals  of  their  deeds, 
And  honor  him  who  vainly  bleeds, 
Alike  with  him  who  needs  not  yield. 
Let  all  brave  men  receive  their  fame, 
For  after  gods   proud   heroes   came. 


MY  MOTHER 

'Ignore  the  common  goal,"  she  said, 

"Leave  fools  to  gather  rubbish  vile; 
Lift  thou  thine  eyes  to  heights  o'erhead 

And  seek  to  bask  in  Glory's  smile. 
A  sluggard  falls  in  midnight  shame, 

The  Shylock's  pomps  with  him  expire, 
But  heroes  leave  a  deathless  name 

For  countless  ages  to  admire. 
Strong  be  thy  will — as  iron  strong — 

To  cleave  a  path  to  high  renown, 
And,  peerless  in  the  fields  of  song, 

To  millions  will  thy  name  go  down. 
The  years  but  drift  to  Death's  dark  shore — 

Let  proud  ambition  sway  thy  mind — 
So  live,  that  when  thy  race  is  o'er 

Resplendent  trails  will  glow  behind." 


(>ri{   PLAXKTS  VOYAdK 

A  thousand  million  frighted  ones, 
Sailing   space   on    flimsy   ball    of   earth, 
Await  a  great  catastrophe — 
The  tragedy  of  human  kind! 


13.8  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

PHILOSOPHY  OF  LUCRETIUS 

We  prate  of  mystic  powers, 

As  oft  we  speak  of  Jove 

Or  mighty  Hercules, 

But  know  them  idle  myths. 

There   is  no  Fate,  no  Destiny, 

To  shape  the  lives  of  men; 

No    supernatural   force. 

Only  Nature's  innate  law — 

Cold,  merciless,  exact. 

Effect?     from  Cause.     Unknown  cause 

Is  Chance,  and  even  Chance 

Has  hidden  laws.     Man  lingers  on  this  globe 

By  sufferance,  the  sport  of  Change, 

Of  grievous  ills.     He  wars  his  way, 

And  at  the  last  should  die 

With  sullen,  silent,  deep  content. 

He  needs  no  deities,  no  gods  of  air. 

He  journeys   to   Nonentity. 


.    TO  HORTEXSE 

I  realize  that  all  I  seek 
Is  transient  as  the  words  we  speak; 
Is  evanescent  as  the  bloom 
Upon  the  rose  just  ere  its  doom 
Is  whispered  by  the  chilling  breeze — 
Thou  alone  hast  power  to  please, 
And  far  the  goal  my  heart  would  win. 
More  happiness  is  garnered  in 
One  hour  of  love  with  you  alone 
Than  e'er  Ambition  called  its  own. 
A  truce  to  Hope — it  is  a  cheat 
That  thrills  us  deepest  ere  defeat. 
There  are  more  joys,  O  love,  in  thee 
In  one  brief  moment  than  whole  years 
Have  often  yielded  unto  me. 
Life  is  but  bitterness   and  tears; 
There  is  no  substance  in  it  all — 
'Tis  emptiness  and  utter  woe. 
Let  Fame's  reluctant  laurels  fall 
On  other  brows — ah!  be  it  so; 
I  little  reck  so  thou  but  smile, 
For  life  is  such  a  little  while 
It  scarce  is  well  to  reach  so  far — 
To  waste  it  in  such  ceaseless  war; 
Be  thou  my  solace  and  my  star. 


I  DYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  139 

(ilA  TKMOZIVS    API'KAL  TO    MKXITLI 

O    Spirit    of   a    mystic,    awful    past! 

Supremest  of  all  Heaven's  regal  train, 

Thy  brilliance  o'er  the  flood  of  years  is  cast, 

With  Time — Eternity — for  thy  domain. 

Where  shines  thy  royal  throne,  O  martial  star? 

Thy  legions  where?  in  fadeless  luster  bright, 

In  glory  to  dismay  poor  mortal  sight. 

Array  fierce  armies  for  ferocious  fight; 

Yea,  close  this  hapless  land's  disastrous  war. 

Death-angel  wild,  in  boundless  heavens  high, 

Triumphal  throned  in  empyrean  sky, 

With  countless  camps  that  reach  remotely  far 

Past  azure,  starry  plains  all  unsubdued, 

For  scenes  of  strife  thy  glorious  powers  are. 

In  fury  close  this  rueful  mortal  feud. 

Strange  robbers  come  to  spoil  the  Zones  of  Sun, 

To  slay  thy  chosen  people,  jeer  of  thee. 

Thy  faithful  mighty  empire  is  undone. 

Poor  Guatemozin,  on  his  vassal  knee, 

Implores  for  aid,  O  martial  star,  of  thee. 


BIVOl'Ar  IX  TENNESSEE 

A  summer  scene!      In  sunshine  lie 
Green  rolling  hills  of  native  maize, 
Whose   wavy   masses  woo  the  eye, 
And  lure  July's  rapacious  blaze. 
Green,  luscious  maize!     Avoided  where 
The  sons  of  ease  in  sloth  repair, 
To  vainly  spur  their  dull  desires, 
But  prized  where  soldiers  laugh  at  care, 
Or   feast  beside   their   bivouac   fires, 
This  region  teems  with  wildwood  flowers. 
Ah!    truly  milk  and  honey  flow; 
Warm  skies  dissolve  with  solar  powers, 
The  cotton  rolls  in  plumes  of  snow. 
All  round  the  queen  Pomona  reigns 
O'er  leafy  vales,  o'er  fruitful  plains, 
And  all  the  balmy  zone  contains 
Of  treasured   fare  is  freely  ours. 
The  good   old  rule,  the  simple  plan, 
Suffices  for  the  sons  of 'Mars 
Who  tread  in  Danger's  reckless  van, 
To  bear  aloft  our  sacred  Stars. 
How  Nature  feasts  our  lawless  clan— 
'Tis  homely  spoil  for  giant  wars. 
A  summer  gale  meanders  by; 
With  mellow  voice  it  seems  to  sigh: 
'O  merry  be — you  soon   may  die." 


140  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

PLACE  DE  LA  CONCORDE 

"I  am  the   State!"  and  earth  was  play-ground  of  the  kings, 
And  men  were  low  as  brutes  and  creeping  things. 
Crime,   brutality,   unbounded  'lust, 
Derided   Law,   debased    humanity  to   dust. 

Here  vengeance  reached  the  cursed  brood  at  last, 
And   lecher,   traitor,   tyrant,   fitly   died.     ' 
Let  execrations  on  their  graves  be  cast, 
Their  loathsome  memories  be  spurned  aside. 


ARC  DE  TRIOMPHE 

[Written  in  Paris  in  1871.] 

Beneath  this  beauteous  arc, 
From  capitals  on  conquered   European  plains, 
Crowned    haughtily   with   bays   of  tumultuous   war, 
The  victor  hosts  of  the  great  Napoleon  came. 
Colossean  scene  of  Glory's  dang'rous  dream — 
Arms,  trophies,  ferocious  pomps,  wild  music  of  war. 
Upon  this  wide,  imperial  road  rolled  the  guns 
That  shook  all  Europe's  thrones  at  Austerlitz. 
Ah!  late  has  Time  his  bitter  jest  made  o'er  it  all. 
Where  strode  the  regal  Corsican  with  Caesar's  mien, 
The  German  kings  their  myriad  banners  wave. 
In  a  glorious  fane  of  conquered   France 
Germania's  lord  has  donned  his  mighty  crown. 


MADRE  D'ORO 

He  had  lavished  his  years  on  the  Mother  of  Gold- 

The  famous  mine  the  Indians  guard. 

Wild  were  his  tales  by  a  camp-fire  told, 

Of  dangerous  wars,  rude  fortunes  hard. 

He  was  friendless,  pale,  alone  and  old, 

But  his  eye  was  bright,  his  spirit  bold. 

He  knew  he  would  find  the  Mother  of  Gold. 

For  oft  he  fled  the  Apache  bands 

With  bullets  of  gold  in  his  withered  hands, 

Which  the  Indians  shot  instead  of  lead, 

Buf  his  comrades  he  left  behind  him  dead. 

Their  bones  are  white  on  the  desert  sands. 

Each  gave  a  scalp  to  an  Indian  lance. 

It  was  out  on  the  wildest  border  line. 

No  rover  had  seen  that  wonderful  mine, 


IDYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  141 

And    ever   survived   the   desperate   chance. 

He   was  old   indeed — so  old  that  ore, 

Though  richer  than  ever  was  found  before, 

Would  never  do  much  for  his  last  few  years, 

But  he  laughed  outright,  with  merry  tears 

That  barely  dimmed  his  restless  eyes, 

As  he  told  of  a  sweet,  a  winsome  girl, 

An  only  child — he  would  yet  surprise 

With  a  diadem  of  snowy  pearl, 

And  all  the  coin  her  home  would  hold, 

Some  day — when  he  found  the  Mother  of  Gold. 


JOAX  OF  ARC 

With  plundered  gold  they  bought  the  pretty  girl- 
These  "gentlemen"  and  lords  of  chivalry, 
From  whom  such  "noble  houses"  now  descend — 
These  bishops,  knights  and  "prelates  eminent." 
They  locked  her  up,  deserted  and  alone.   - 
With  shame,  insult,  abuse,  they  broke  her  heart. 
They  tortured  her — "God's  people"  well  knew  how- 
And  when  from  agony  she  had  "confessed," 
They  took  her  out  and  burnt  her  at  a  stake. 
When  time  has  partly  veiled  this  awful  crime, 
They  canonize  the  maid  and  call  her  "saint." 
I'll  give  the  soldier-girl  a  nobler  name. 
I'll  call  her  Womanhood  in  martial  guise, 
And  heroine  who  for  her  country  died. 
By  this  the  world  will  love  to  keep  her  name. 


THE  OLD  COXQUESTADOR 

Farewell  adventure's  dang'rous  game. 

On  alien  shores  we  meet  our  foes; 
Like  worthy  knights  deal  doughty  blows, 

But  when  campaigns  have  reached  a  close, 
We've  paid  with  scars  for  knightly  fame, 

And  only  sigh  for  sweet  repose. 


HE  HAD   SOME  FRIENDS 

"Have  you  no  friends?"     "O,  yes,  a  few. 
In  times  of  trouble  they  are  true. 
When  I  am  told  to  take  a  walk, 
They  hustle  out  and  promptly 'talk — " 
He   pulled   some   dollars    into   view. 


142  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

CORTEZ  AXD  PIZARRO 

[From   "Sun  Worship  Shores."] 

Cortez,   of  high,   transcendent   fame, 

Won  through  these  lands  his  deathless  name. 

His  treasure  ships,  his  galleons,  rode 

These  balmy  seas;   his  dauntless  knights 

Foreswore  past  loves  for  new  delights — 

Castile  abjured  for  scenes  like  these. 

Close  by  their  camps  yon  river  flowed, 

Where  palm  trees  lure  the  spicy  breeze, 

And  lavish  pomps  of  Nature  please. 

What   lawless   life   those   rovers  led, 

In  flow'ry  zones  they  warred  for  gold. 

The  march,  the  foe,  the  onset  bold; 

The  rich  returns  from  forays  red, 

Stern  honors  when  each  raid  was  o'er, 

The  revel  wild  or  light  amour. 

Though  millions  'neath  his  sword  were  tamed 

No  grisly  chief  that  leader  famed. 

Soft  were  his  lustrous  oval  eyes — 

Dark,  tender  eyes,  full  often  sad 

From  weary  thought  or  sorrows  had; 

Pale,  noble  features — thoughtful,   wise, 

Were  lighted  by  those  lustrous  eyes. 

Fair  seemed  his  ways  to  fearless  knights 

Who  knew  no  code  of  human  rights 

Except  that  gold — all  gold  implies — 

Should  be  the  spoil  of  him  who  fights. 

Of  coarser  vein,  of  ruder  mold, 

Pizarro  won  his  wreath  of  bay; 

Of  harsher  mien,  of  manners  cold. 

Fame  lured  him  not;   he  craved  for  gold. 

His  life's  romance  had  waned  away. 

O,  Pleasure,  Love,  had  had  their  day; 

His  knightly  prime  had  lost  its  flower. 

He  sought  uncurbed,  imperial  sway. 

He  had  an  old  man's  love  for  power. 

When  selfish  courtiers  chose  to  fly, 

Well  knew  Pizarro  how  to  die. 


THE  POETASTER 

He  writes  his  trash  with  painful  care — 
(It  almost  makes   his   fingers  bleed), 
But  never  thinks  while  drudging  there, 
His  rotten  stuff  no  one  will  read. 
A  dismal  case  it  is  indeed. 


IDYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  143 

DARK   DAYS   IN   TIIK  JKRSKVS 

In  silence  of  wrath  George  Washington  rode 
At  The  head  of  his  troops  o'er  a  wintry  land. 
Deep  traces  of  care  on  his  countenance  showed, 
For  the  foe  prevailed!    O  somber  the  load 
That   heavily   weighed   on  his  weary  brain, 
But  bold  his  heart — ah!   never  a  trace 
Appeared  on  his  proud,  his  manly  face, 
Of  thoughts  of  flight   or  of  base   despair. 
He  would  fight  while  he  found  a  soldier  there. 
With  a  dangerous  fire  his  calm  eyes  glowed. 
A  few  thousand  men  obeyed  his  command, 
And  they  wearily  trudged  through  a  wintry  land. 
Their  tents,  equipage — their  blankets  were  gone. 
They  were  starved  and  cold,  but  still  marched  on 
With  the  faith  of  children  in  Washington. 
Their  clothing  was  old  and  hanging  in  rags, 
But  they  bore  their  arms  and  their  battle  flags. 
His  purpose  from  them  the  leader  concealed. 
He  was  marching  down  to  Trenton  field, 
And  he  routed  the  foe  when  his  cannon  pealed. 
With  a  fearless  heart  and  a  Spartan  band, 
He  drove  Despair  from  his  native  land. 
The  star  of  Hope  that  day  arose, 
Undimmed  it  shone  to  the  warfare's  close — 
Till  the  land  was  free  of  its  foreign  foes. 
All  hail  to  the  men  that  Washington   led, 
Who   never   for   snows   or   dangers    cared. 
The  world  admires  the  deeds  they  dared, 
Reveres  the  soil  on  which  they  bled. 
They  fought  in  rags — but  the  foeman  fled. 
Hurrah  for  the  field  their  blood  made  red, 
High  glory  to  him  who  never  despaired. 


KXULTATIOX  OF  PIZAREO 

Aha!  that  gold  is  mine — that  mass  of  gold — 

All  a  stately  palace  hall  will  hold. 

'Tis  crowded  to  the  very  dome  with  gold 

In  massive  bars,  in  Suns  beset  with  stones 

As  pure  as  ever  gleamed   on  royal  thrones, 

Or  shone  on  crown  or  oriental  diadem. 

I  thought  a  serpent  glared — it  was  a  gem 

That  gazed  on  me  from  out  that  golden  mass. 

What  costly  stones  flash  on  me  as  I  pass, 

Imbedded  in  the  virgin  ore;  alas! 

How  shall  they  from  their  places  fair  be  torn? 

O,  I  am  rich — I'm  rich  at  last!   so  rich 


144  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

That  never  man  of  hapless  woman  born 

Had  spoil  enough  to  gaze  on  me  with  scorn. 

I  hear  of  men  whose  fevered  palms  do  itch 

For  gold,  and  I  could  slay  such  greedy  slaves 

In  droves — by  crushing  them  with  precious  ore! 

And  then   conceal   their  idle,  bloody   graves 

With  shining  piles  of  gold — ay,  fling  out  more, 

And  would  not  then  deplete  this  mighty  store, 

I  told  this  Inca  of  a  fell  disease 

The  Spaniards  had,  that  naught  but  gold  would  cure — 

A  plague  arising  from  a  heart  impure, 

That  baffles  all  the  skill  across  the  seas. 

He  swore  to  me  upon  his  bended  knees 

That  he  would  fill  that  palace  hall  with  gold, 

If  I  would  set  his  royal  person  free. 

Thereon  the  silly  pagan  put  his  trust  in  me, 

And  had  his  vassals  bring  enormous  wealth 

To  cure  that  ill — to  give  my  people  health! 

Pizarro's  health  appears  much  better  now — 

No  fever  burns  his  philanthropic  brow, 

But  soon  the  Inca's  body  will  be  cold. 

I'll  have  him  killed,  now  that  I've  got  his  gold. 

Perhaps  I'll  torture  him  to  learn  of  more 

His  people  may  conceal  in  places  far. 

What  Spanish  eyes  e'er  saw  such  wealth  before? 

I'll  be  a  prince — yea,  wear  a  noble  star, 

And  yet  I've  seen  the  day  I've  needed  bread, 

And  had  not  where,  at  eve  to  lay  my  head. 

They  say  'tis  evil  to  desire  gold — 

These  ruthless  human  wolves  in  quest  of  prey, 

Whose  very  souls — for  coin — are  daily  sold; 

Who  rend  each  other  for  some  paltry  pay; 

Who  rob,  who  plunder,  through  their  petty  day, 

But  grey  Pizarro  will  accept  of  gold. 

He  knows  what  princely  avenues   unfold 

If  merry  villain  shakes  a  bag  of  gold. 

Ah,  me!  I'm  crazy  with  such  pleasant  sight 

As  all  this  monstrous  pile  of  metal  bright. 

It  fills  my  savage  soul  with  deep  delight. 

I  must  away  to  rest  these  eyes,  and  then 

I'll  hasten  back  to  gaze — to  gloat,  again. 

Meanwhile,  with  torture,  faggot,  rope  or  knife, 

I'll  rid  this  frightened  Inca  of  his  life. 


LANSING  AND  BRYAN 

With  sceptre  in  hand,-  and  crown  on  his  head, 
'Remove  those  baubles,"  the  Autocrat  said. 


I  I)\  I.S    OF    HO  II  I'M  I  A  145 

DARK   DAYS   IN    I'.OIIKMIA 

I  do  not  writ»\  as  wrote  New  England's  bards, 

In  pleasant  parlors,  rich  with  works  of  art, 

Where  ladies  call  to  leave  their  kind  regards, 

Or  pay  the  tribute  of  their  gentle  hearts. 

I've  found  the  world  a  brutal  battle  ground, 

And  I  have  fought  beneath  a  banner  black, 

But  why  portray  the  scenes  that  I  have  found? 

Tin-  wreck  and  ruin  round  my  stormy   track. 

There  is  a  goal  that  shines  on  me  afar; 

.Mayhap   allures  with   cruel,  baleful  beams; 

Perchance  derides — as  dread  as  failure  seems — 

For  heaven's  orbs  in  all  their  courses  war 

Against   achievement   of  my  youthful  dreams. 

My  weary  soul  is  faint  with  hope  deferred. 

The  world  may  never  dream  or  know  a  word 

Of  all  the  strains  with  which  my  fancy  teems. 

As  I  have  lived,  so  may  I  die — unheard; 

.My  verse  may  molder  in  some  cellar  heap,  •» 

And  I   in  some  ignoble  grave  may  sleep. 

Defeat,  for  me,  makes  all  this  world  a  tomb. 

These  thoughts  are  stern — they  fill  my  mind  with  gloom. 

Wild,  restless  moods  awake  my  soul  to  life, 

And   I   renew  what  seems  an   idle  strife. 

How  can  I  write  like  Fortune's  petted  sons, 

Whose  tender  skies  are  soft  with  summer  bright? 

O  weave  a  song  for  earth's  unhappy  ones — 

The  fallen  heroes  of  disastrous  fight. 


KVK  BKFORK  CORINTH 
"Rouse  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star." 

Soldier,  sleep!  for  the  dawn  will  bring 
Roll  of  Tlrums  and  thunder  of  strife. 
Missiles    of   death    on    viewless    wing, 
Will  hiss  in  hate  where  slaughter  is  rife — 
Where  bullet  and  shell  and  shrapnel  sing, 
And  cheers   of   stormers  on  hilltops   ring, 
And  war-dogs  bay  for  the  soldier's  life. 

Soldier,  dream — O  dream  of  the  day 
When  rumble  of  strife  is  heard  no  more; 
When  hosts  of  war  have  melted  away. 
And  cannons  have  ceased    their  murderous  play, 
And  volleys  have  lost  their  terrible  roar. 
Dream  of  scenes  you  have  left  for  aye, 
For  morn  will  bring  your  very  last  day; 
The  grave  awaits  when  battle  is  o'er. 
10 


146  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

BATTLE  OF  IUKA 

[1862.1 

In  somber  desolation  stood 
A  forest  wide — in  silence  and  in  gloom; 
As  moveless  as  the  cerements  of  a  tomb. 
Autumnal  eve  stole  o'er  this  lonesome  wood — 
This   mournful  scene  for  contemplations   deep, 
For  awful  thoughts  on  mysteries  profound; 
Where  ambitions,  passions,  cruelties  might  sleep, 
Nor  human  hate  invade  such  holy  ground. 

A  burst  of  cheers  from  armed  lines, 

The  gleam  of  steel  in  solemn  twilight  shines! 

Dark  banners  toss,  battalions   hasten   past; 

Red  autumn  leaves  whirl  from  the  cannon's  blast 

As  rival  columns  in  confusion  close. 

A  charge— repulse,  a  fearless  counter  charge, 

The  roar  of  arms!     In  desperation,  foes 

Commingle   o'er   the   combat's   fearful    marge. 

Huzza  for  strife.    Fast  fall  fierce  Valor's  blows. 

No  man  a  touch  of  gentle  mercy  knows. 

In  crimson  rills  the  blood  of  soldier  flows. 

While  thunder  peals  resound,  the  foe  recoils, 
Then  hurries  to  ferocious  charge  once  more. 
Fresh  masses  in  disastrous  onset  pour. 
A  blaze  of  Hell  dismays — the   strife   is   o'er; 
The  Union  guns  are  plashed  with  human  gore. 

A  brief  cessation  comes,  and  then  a  peal 
Of  rifle  arms;    a   clash   of  level   steel 
Where  cannons  volley  with   intenser  zeal. 

In  vain  incessant  efforts  of  the  foe. 

His  host  retreats  within  the  dark  wood's  gloom 

Defiantly,   in   sullen  overthrow,        . 

Pale  stars  the  misty  dome  of  night  illume. 

Dense   ebon  shades  in   mercy  intervene, 

Like  awful  palls  thrown  o'er  some  fearful  scene. 

War's  hapless  votaries  expire  between. 


ARK  OF  THE  COVENANT 

Like  the  wonderful  king  who  pleasantly  reigns, 
The  Ark  they  built  with  money  and  pains 
Had  beautiful  words  and  not  any  brains. 
Since  bunk  was  plenty  and  brains  were  few, 
The  Ark  went  down  in  the  ocean  blue. 


1  I)  YLS    OF    BO  II  KM  1  A  147 

PHILOSOPHY  OF  PIXARKO 

For  precious  ore   I  have  much  need, 

So '"Rob  the  Robbers"   is  my   creed. 

To  plunder  nations  is  no  wrong, 

For   earth   belongs   unto   the    strong. 

This  life's  a  wheel  within  a  wheel. 

An    idle,    worthless,    timid   sire 

Transmits  no  proof,  resentful  steel 

To  bear  the    blows   of   life's   ordeal, 

To  strengthen  in  life's  fearful  fire. 

The  strong  prevail,  or  prove  their  worth; 

Thry  tear  their  weaker  comrades  down, 

And   then  array  with  crest  or  crown, 

To  loudly   vaunt  their  "noble  birth." 

They  hold  their  spoil  by  force  and  wrong, 

Their  gilded  lairs  are  glad  with  song, 

For  earth  belongs  unto  the  strong. 

Let  each  secure  a  spot  of  soil, 

Then  war  his  ruthless  way  along, 

And  wrest  away  a  share  of  spoil — 

This  world  belongs  unto  the  strong. 

The  weaker  creatures  round  his  way, 

]\Ian  kills  for  pleasure  or  for  prey. 

In  turn  they  kill  all  things  they  can, 

For  murder  seems  creation's  plan. 

This  robber's  den  with  purple  dome, 

Appears  Pizarro's  proper  home. 

He  seeks  to  win  what  seems  his  own, 

By  force — by  no  man's  royal  grace, 

Xor  has  alarm,  nor  fears  to  face 

The  peril  that  surrounds  a  throne. 

The  king  of  Spain  will  be  his  prey, 

If  e'er  they  join  in  crafty  play, 

And  issues  prove  Fernando  weak. 

Pizarro  covets   royal   sway — 

The  prizes   men  of  honor  seek, 

Nor  cares  for  love,  nor  casts  vain  eyes 

On  crowns  that  shine  in  yonder   skies. 

This  world  his  field  of  high  emprise, 

Ambition — Gold!   his  Paradise. 


TECUMSEH 

"The  Sun  was  my  father, 
The  Earth  my  mother, 
And   death   ends   all." 
The  savage  knew  as  much 
As  proudest  lore  reveals. 


148  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

OUR  MESSAGE  OF  PEACE 

x  [See  Prose  Addenda.] 

I  saw  a  ship  cram-full   of  gold, 
With  Bibles  and  rum  down  in  its  hold, 
And  checks  and  drafts  and  wealth  untold. 
"O  where   are  you  going   my   sailor  bold?" 
"Going  to  help  the  missionaries." 

I  saw  a  Captain  climbing  a  hill, 
With  soldiers  keen  to  do  his  will. 
All  rready  and  armed  to  maim  or  kill. 
"O  where  are  you  going,  you  sons  of  ill?" 
"Going  to  save  the  missionaries." 

I  saw  a  ship  on  the  China  seas 
With  soldiers  and  sailors  as  thick  as  bees, 
And  cannons  on  board  as  big  as  trees. 
"O  where  are  you  going  with  things  like  these?' 
"Going   to   save  the   missionaries." 

I  saw  some  Chinamen  hanging  high 
On   gibbets   aligned  along  the   sky — 
And  lots  of  coffins  hurried   by. 
Of  a  mandarin  I  questioned  why. 
He  gave  to  me  a  low  reply: 

"They  scared   the   missionaries." 

I  saw  a  big  ship  sailing  back 
With  money  and  coin  in  many  a  sack, 
And  heathen  heads  all  turning  black, 
Arrayed  with  care  upon  a  rack. 
In  some  surprise  I  asked  a  mate 
Why  he  carried  such  funny  freight. 
He  answered  me  with  air  sedate: 
"They   scared   the   missionaries." 

We  need  a  bigger  national  fleet 
With  dynamite  guns  nobody  can  beat, 
Then  our  message  of  peace  we  needn't  repeat. 
To   every   chief   on   the   China  coast 
We'll  shout  ashore  with  haughty  boast: 
"You  read  that  book,  you  heathen  Chinee, 
Or  we'll  blow  your  city  clear  over  the  sea." 

O,  leave  the  pagan  with  a  child-like  smile 
To  hunt  for  Heaven  in  his  own  style, 
And  use  your  money  to  feed  the  poor 
That  Misery  leaves  at  your  front  door. 


I  IM  I.S    OF    HO  II  KM  I  A  149 

I'>ROTIIK1MN-LA\Y    TO    TIIK    (iOYKRNMKNT 

While    Woodrov,-    was    strolling 
Among   scenes   consoling, 
And    was    gently    cajoling 
A    King   and    his    peeia— 
Their    great    plans    extolling — 
Tin-  Devil  was  coaling — 
His   t'nel   controlling; 
Hell    bells    were  tolling, 
Political   knells   knolling; 
Sob-sisters  were  polling 
Their  first  vote,  with  tears 
And  emotional  fears, 
But  Brother-in-Law  Boiling 
Kept  things  rolling. 
He  gathered  no  cash 
From   profiteers   rash — 
Xo   forty    thousand   bucks 
With  the  best  of  lucks, 
In  a  great,  huge  chunk! 
That's  newspaper  bunk — 
So  it  appears. 

A   well-informed-gentleman   states 

There  were  no  concessions,  divisions,  rebates, 

Or  other  things  some  fellow  narrates. 

Everything  went  for  the  old  United  States. 

Xo  bribes  were  paid  or  ills  devised, 

But  ships  that  cost  Four  Billion  bucks 

Were  plundered  first,  then  "amortized" 

By  pleasant  looking  government  ducks, 

\Vho  also  "amortized"  the  bucks. 

The  Idiots  now,  without  protest, 

Will  drudge  and  tug  and  do  the  rest. 

With   a  wireless  station  in  easy  call, 
Woodrow  knew  nothing  about  it  all. 


DKATII   WOTXI)  OF  CORDOVA 

What  cares  Cordova   for   a  wound, 
For   marches  long  or  ocean's  flow? 
His  dreams  are  sweet  on  any  ground — 
He  fights  where  challenges  the  foe. 
His   valor  burns   where  Glory  smiles, 
Where  Fortune   lures   with  angel   w: 
Heed  not  a  savage  foeman's  blow — 
Where  bays  are  won  high  blood  must  flow. 


150  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

LOST  EMPIRES 

[From  "Sun  Worship  Shores."    See  Prose  Addenda.] 

Hath  lofty  muse  of  Story  wrought 
On  most  momentous  of  her  themes? 
O,  Fancy   soar  in   somber  dreams, 
And    revel    in    portentous   thought. 

'    A  withered  empire  lies  in  woods 
Where  olden  Glory  weeps  in  gloom — 
In   melancholy    solitudes; 
In  vasty  solemn  shades  that  loom 
Like  hoary  Time's  mysterious  womb. 
Far  in  a  wood  of  shadows  vast, 
Aloof   from    wond'ring   mortal    gaze, 
Repose  the  ruins  of  the  past — 
Great  cities  of  primeval  days. 
Their  very  names  were  white  with  age 
Ere  wiped  from  Time's  historic  page. 
Huge  avenues,  true  as  a  die, 
Paved  smoothly  o'er  with  massive  stone, 
Pierce  wilderness — green  mountains  lone — 
To  where   Phoenician   cities  lie. 
Stupendous  walls,  fanes,   temples  grim, 
Are  hid  by  foliage  and  limb, 
For  Man  has  gone — has  left  his  own. 
Nowhere  is  sign  or  trace  of  him. 
Here    Glory    reigned    in    olden    time, 
When    Asshur    was    in    early    prime, 
When  Europe  was  a  savage  zone. 
How  long  ago  these  temples  gray 
Arose    with   monolith    of  stone, 
No   mortal  now  may  truly  say — 
'Twas  long  ago — in  former  day. 
The  wreck  of  pleasure  domes  is  spread 
Beneath  a  restless  torrid  wave; 
The  ocean  monster's  young  are  fed 
In   revel   halls   of   princes  dead, 
And  swim  along  a  city's  pave. 
The   ships    of   Ormuz   once   did    pour 
Their  spices,  treasures,  on  a  shore 
That  now  is  vanished  Empire's  grave. 
The  land  of  Ophir,  rich  with  gold, 
Was  where  these  waves  of  purple  rolled 
On  glorious  isles  in  days  of  old. 
Here  came  the  ships  of  Solomon, 
Far  sailing  o'er  the  western  seas, 
Past   austral   islands,   one   by   one, 
Their  Tyrian  sails  flown  to  the  breeze, 
Or  furled,  by  worshipers  of  Sun — 
Undaunted  mariners  of  Tyre, 
Fierce  devotees  of  sacred  fire. 


ID  Y  I.S    01      HO  II  KM  1  A  151 

Great  palace  halls  were  built  of  stone 
As    mighty    Kgypt   built    her   own; 
Huge  temples  rose  to  golden  Bel, 
Where   human   blood   in  torrents   fell 
For  welfare  of  the  Summer  Zone. 
To  Ashterath  were  altars  built, 
Where  gory  streams  were  freely  spilt. 
Of  Nineveh  here  all  was  known; 
Here  voiced  astrologer  and  seer, 
And  all   Chaldean  pomps   were  here, 
Star-worship  and  all  starry  lore. 
These  temples  were  in  utmost  yore, 
When  o'er  the  world  Sesostris  warred, 
Ere  Judith  smote  her  heathen  lord — 
When  splendor  was  in  Indus  hoar. 


VALLEY  FORGE 

What  friends  at  Valley  Forge  had  George  the  Third? 

What  powers  there  sustained  the  British  Crown? 

At  mid  of  night  the  northern  gale  was  heard, 

And  wearily  the  stormy  snows  came  down. 

At  morn,  December  skies  wore  Winter's  frown. 

The  starving  soldiers,  pale  with  cruel  cold, 

Around  their  waning  fires  unhappy  stood, 

Or  marched  in  arms  across  an  icy  wold — 

Their  ghastly  trail  was  tinged  with  human  blood. 

Pale    Famine,   too,   sustained   the   British   Crown; 

All   viewless  roved  the  fiendish   foe   Despair, 

But   Washington  and  Liberty  were  there, 

And  all  in  vain  the  stormy  snows  came  down. 


MOTNT  TACOMA 

The  Indian  loved  this  noble  peak 
That   wand 'ring  dudes   call    Muntraneer; 
He  heard  his  deities  in  thunder  speak 
From  out   its  clouds,  when  eve  was   near; 
On  high  they  passed  in  vivid  flame. 
Tahkomah    was    the    olden    name 
He  chose — mellifluous,  soft  to  the  ear. 
The   trapper,   hunter,  soldier   knew 
No  other  than  the  savage  gave. 
Now   cities   line  the  western  wave, 
And    aliens    name   the   peak   anew. 
'Twill  bear  no  name    of  foreign  buccaneer- 
On    truthful    page    Tacoma   will    appear. 


152  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

NAPOLEON  IN  OBSCTRITY 

[Written  in  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries  in  1871.] 

Here  lone  he  strolled  in  youthful  years — 
Unfriended,  lost  in  dreams  of  pride; 
Here,  penniless,  he  burst  in  tears, 
Or  darkly   pondered   suicide. 
The  pangs  of  penury,  unrest, 
Quenched  not  the  fires  within  his  breast. 
Young,   lithe,   erect,    slight  as   a  girl. 
Soldier-like   in  step,  with  bearing   proud; 
Dense  hair  that  fell  in  wave  and  curl 
Around  his  shoulders  like  a  cloud 
Wherein  the  tempest   finds   a  home; 
Firm  lips  that  spoke  a  will  of  steel — 
Immutable  as  heaven's  dome; 
Fierce  eyes  whose  glance  you  half  could  feel, 
So  piercingly  they  gazed;  whose  glow 
Was  eloquent  of  lofty  woe,  * 
Imperial   pride,   unflinching    zeal, 
And  slumb'ring  yet  transcendent  power; 
(In   bitter   gloom   they   seemed    to   lower 
On   vacant   air,  as   though   his   brain 
Revolved  deep  thoughts  of  savage  pain 
He  would  not  banish;    then  they  grew 
Triumphant  in  their  baleful  hue 
As  though  Imagination  threw 
Around  some  scheme  you  could  not  guess, 
The  halo  of  profound  success)  ; 
Fair   features   in   heroic  mould, 
For  avarice  had  ne'er  controlled 
His  thoughts,  to  stamp  its  craven  lines 
Upon  his  brow,  nor  passions  base, 
Since  each  low  pursuit  swift  defines 
Its  hideous  brand  or  secret  trace; 
An  air  that  haughtily   bespoke 
One  born  not  for  Submission's  yoke, 
But  framed  by  Nature  for  command; 
One  who  had  been,  in  some  soft  land, 
Enthroned  in  ease,  a  poet  grand, 
Whose  stormy  numbers   idly  flung 
To  list'ning  throngs,  had  swiftly  rung 
Through  all  the  world,  till  nations  hung 
Upon  the  music  of  his  tongue, 
Or  on  his  harp's  impassioned  strain, 
Bewildered  and  enrapt;  yet  one, 
Had   Treason  dared  its  horrid  reign 
O'er  empires   shattered   and   undone, 
Had  seized  the  helm  of  State,  or  sword, 
And  scattered  far  Dissension's  horde, 
Or  fiercely  hurled    Invasion  back; 


I  n  YI.S    OF    lit)  I!  I.  M  1  A  153 

\  strange,  wild  one  who  did  not  lack 
Tlu-   iii>nil«T   weaknesses   that  win 
The  humbler  myriads  to  sin 
And    luxury   and   sloth,  but   who 
Around  his  soul  such  cordons  drew 
or  stern    resolves,   that  Beauty's  bloom 
\Vas  baffled  by  his  sullen  gloom; 
That    Pleasure  spread   for   him   in   vain 
Her  Circean  toils,  and  wanton  Ease 
Was  powerless  to  forge  a  chain 
So   coyly    screened   he  could   not   seize 
With  ready  hand  and  rend  in  twain. 
Such  was  the  chief  ere  yet  his  name 
Was  blazoned  on  the  scroll  of  Fame. 

In   yonder  fane  he  proudly  dwelt 
In    later    years,    with   hosts    at   will; 
Wars   came;    red   Slaughter   raged    until 
He  spoke,  then  all  the  world  was  still. 
Countless    kings    before    him    knelt, 
And  utmost  lands  his  power  felt. 

Great  good  he  wrought  in  his  fierce  way. 
His  faults  were  those  of  mortal  clay. 
With  glory  crowned,   with   many   stains, 
His  name  will  live  while  earth  remains. 


ADIOS.  BOHEMIA 

O'er  mountains  blue,  o'er  desert  sands, 

'Xeath  burning  suns  of  tropic  sky; 

In  gorgeoiio  vales  of  summer  lands, 

Where'er,  henceforth,  my  path   may   lie — 

In    fortress   rude,   cathedral   old, 

Or  ruins  hour,  with  ages  gray; 

In  truce  or  strife  with  rovers  bold 

Who  toss  the'r  lives  like  chaff  away; 

On  granite  peak  or  ocean   shore; 

In  peace  or  v*ar,  in  wild  foray; 

In  lawless  eas?  when  strife  is  o'er, 

In  pensive  hours  at  close  of  day; 

If  gay  with  hope  or  sad  and  lorn, 

At   solemn   featt   or   revel   wild; 

'Mid  matchiess  scenes  at  glowing  morn 

Where  endless  summer  long  hath  smiled; 

'Xeath  midnight  stars,  where'er  I  stray 

In  reckless  chase  of  gold  or  fame, 

Fond  memories  will  haunt  my 'way, 

And  e'en  the  winds  of  dying  day 

!!r»  a  the  on  the  a.r  Bohemia's  name. 


154  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

KOSKCRAXS  AT  CORIXTII 

[Written  before  the  General's  death.]  , 

Invincible   in   arms,   with  laurel   crowned, 

He  heard  the  wooded  hills,  the  vales,  resound 

With  cheers  of  soldiers  on  their  battle  ground, 

In  warlike  honor  of  his  dauntless  deeds. 

This  is  the  noblest  of  a  hero's    meeds. 

When  some  resolved,  some  stately  chieftain  leads, 

What  column  hesitates  or  craven  flies? 

Torn  ranks  reformed  beneath  his  fearless  eyes, 

To  brave  the  foe  at  his  imperious  will. 

Bold  as  a  lion,  as  a  serpent  wise, 

Applauding  armies  owned  his  martial  skill. 

No  famous  feudal  knight  e'er  shivered  lance 

With  bolder  mien  than  this  high  chief  of  ours 

IMoved  o'er  the  field  to  meet  Rebellion's  powers — 

Undaunted,  lion-hearted  Rosecrans! 

October  skies  wore  autumn's  rosy  glow. 

Twice  westward  wheeled  a  golden  sun,  alas! 

O'er  bloody  pomps,  o'er  War's  red  scenes  of  woe. 

Where  now  the  dreadful  pageants  of  the  foe? 

His  driven  host — a  wild,  commingled  mass, 

With   Ruin    urging   on    disastrous    flight — 

In  terror  streamed  through  gloomy  shades  of  night. 

Upon    his    trail    avenging    armies    pressed, 

And  Hatchie's  wave  was  tinged  with  martial  blood. 

Through  autumn  vale,  through  flamy-tinted  wood, 

Went   pouring  on  the  flower  of  the  West. 

Though  slain  were  dense  on  Corinth's  bloody  field, 

Our  banners  there  in  haughty  challenge   waved, 

As    Hope    in    stately    majesty    revealed 

Our  native  land  in  peaceful  splendor  saved. 

Our  leader  then  was  in  his  regal  prime. 

I  see  him  now  as  in  that  stormy  past — 

A  dauntless  chief;  a  lofty  spirit  cast 

In  manly,  sinewy  frame  of  steel. 

Resistance  but  awoke  his  keener  zeal; 

His  courage  on  a  scene  of  strife  sublime — 

Serene    he   waited   for    his    chosen    time 

To  launch  a  storm,  to  deal  a  final  blow. 

All  men  who  warred  with  him  his  valor  know. 

His  eye  was   like   an   eagle's  in  its  gaze; 

His  army  crowned  him  with  triumphal  bays. 

To-day  he  bows  beneath  a  weight  of  years, 

Thin  locks  of  gray  entwine  his  honored  brow. 

Age  calms  his  high,  intrepid  spirit  now; 

A  vision  of  repose  to  him  appears. 

His  faithful  soldiers,  too,  are  growing  old— 

Ah!  time  to  them  his  martial  fame  endears. 

They  look  far  down  the  misty  aisles  of  years, 

And  hail  him  still  as  Rosecrans  the  Bold! 


I  1)  Y  I.S    OF    BOH  KM  I  A  155 

TI1K   AMERICAN    EMPIRE 

The  Empire    impends — 

The  years  are  weighed  down 

With  the  burden  of  its  coming. 

Its  throne  will  be 

As  the  throne  of  the  world. 

The  snows  of  the   Poles 

Will  whiten  its  limits, 

Uttermost  seas  prohibit   its  growth. 

There  will  arise  in  this  land 

A  dominant   race, 

Triumphant    in    war. 

With  a  genius  to  rule. 


SPAIN 

[1898.] 

If  she  but  dares  one  faithless  measure  more, 
A  day  of  dark,  disastrous  doom  is  near. 
'Twill  end  her  power  on  this  western  shore — 
We'll  drive  her  banners  from  this  hemisphere. 


THE  SWEET  sorni 

These   isles  allure  that  keep  Fonseca's   fame. 
The  purple  sea,  the  tender  breath  of  gales, 
The  glow  that  bids  a  myriad  flowers  bloom; 
The  plumy  birds  that  sing  so  passing  sweet, 
Allay  my   fretful   spirit   like  a   spell. 
Here  in  the  bosom  of  the  gentle  South 
Shall  passions  of  old  sorrows  be  forgot. 

O  you  who  love  the  breath  of  summer  shores, 

Who  weary  of  the  clamor  of  the  world, 

These  are  the  palmy  scenes  for  which  you  pine. 

The  sternest  ordeal  here  is~idleness, 

The   utniost  virtue  known  is  indolence; 

In  lotus  vales,  voluptuous  repose! 

Rove  in  these  flow'ry  haunts  of  fruited  gold, 

And  revel  in  sweet  heritage  of  ease. 

What  matter  if  some  olden  strife  shall  cease? 

Content  you  in  these  leafy  scenes  to  dwell. 


156  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

AL  OF  DE  SOTO 


However  well   a   battle  hath  been   waged, 

To  him  who  fails,  Derision  bawls: 

Away!      Go  off  and  hide  thyself. 

We  want  no  more  of  you." 

A  clown,  by  simple  chance  and  ready  gold 

Attains  preeminence;  unknown,  a  fighter  dies. 

How  oft,  in  mad  Contention's  mix,  may  this  befall. 

To  one,  therefore,  I  would  refer, 

Who  failed,  who  died,  but  did  not  wholly  fail, 

But  fought  his  fray  to  final  end, 

And  left  his  corse  on  Glory's  palmy  field. 

Our  leader's  dead!     He  leaves  us  in  dismay 
In  this  vast  wilderness,  with  foes  around. 
How  gloomy,  dismal,  are  the  lonesome  woods; 
How  hostile,  boundless  —  filled  with  cruel  foes. 
The  swamps  appall,  where  hot  effluvias  breed. 
The  land  is  all  alive  with  tawny  foes 
That  move  like  demon  shadows  on  our  trail, 
To  plague  each  fallen  soldier  as  he  dies; 
Pale   Famine   soars   on   silent  wing   around. 
No  cities  have  we  spoiled  of  treasure  huge. 
This  march  has  been  a  fearful,  idle  quest, 
For  only  savage  races  meet  us  here, 
Who  have  no  spoil  a  knight  would  deign  to  seize. 
This  rude,  wild  region  has  no  gift  for  us 
But  graves,  and  far,  O  far  from  us  the  Sea  — 
So  far,  we  ne'er  shall  find  its  breezy  shore, 
That  some  white  sail  of  Spain  might  haply  come 
To  bear  us  to  sweet  homes  we  ne'er  shall  view. 
And  he  who  brought  us  here,  alas!  is  dead. 
He  leaves  us  but  a  gloomy  choice  of  death. 

So  be  it  then.    His  form  be  clad  in  mail. 
Ay,  lay  our  leader  out  in  Spanish  mail, 
Without  a  blemish  on  his  costly  steel; 
With  plume  disposed  upon  his  knightly  helm. 
Upon  his  loins  belt  his  unsullied  sword  — 
So  high  of  soul  he  was  to  fare  so  ill. 
Drape  o'er  his  corse  the  colors  of  Castile, 
For  he  hath  boldly  borne  our  banner  far. 
With  noble,  guard  of  honor  placed  around, 
In  solemn  state  his  body  shall  repose, 
While  mournfully  pale  soldiers  gaze  thereon. 
Lo!      See  you  that  hoarse  cannon  peal, 
That  surly   Nature  may  deplore  his  doom, 
And    echo   grief,   across   the   river's   wave. 
All  through  the  day  the  chevalier  shall  lie 
Beneath  a  canopy  of  cypress  boughs, 


1  P  Y  LS    or    UO  II  KM  I  A  157 

As  though  reclined   in  some  cathedral  nave. 
When  sunset   reddens  o'er  this  dreary   land, 
Recount   his   warfares   rude,  illustrious — 
On  Aztec  shores,   in  far  away   Peru. 
T\vas  there  he  won  his  early  meed  of  fame, 
Though  Fate  betrayed  him  on  this  venture  wild. 
Have  speech  of  him  in  worthy  strain,  high  flown, 
For  he  hath  been  Castilian  soldier  true, 
But  of  the  world  reaped  not  his  merits  all. 

When  twilight  shadows  come,  in  funeral  barge 

All  cushioned  o'er  with  flowers,  with  forest  leaves — 

Rich  Lined  with  royal  banners  trimmed  with  gold, 

We'll  place  at  rest  our  noble  cavalier, 

And  he  shall   seem  asleep  in  glory  there. 

With  blaze  of  torch,  with  heavy  boom  of  guns, 

And  with  a  mournful  blare  of  trumpets  loud, 

Our  fleet  of  boats  shall  slowly  voyage  out, 

And  this  great  stream  which  brave  De  Soto  found 

Shall  be  his  grave!     Whole  centuries  will  pass, 

And  yet  all  men  will  some  time  speak  of  him. 

The  stream  forever  will  bear  on  his   name. 

Pay  honors  now  above  De  Soto's  corse, 

That  Spain  some  day  may  learn  his  knightly  doom. 


WOMAN   IX  Pl'BLK1  'LIFK 

Frantic,  foolish,  wild  with  vain  demands, 
She  shakes  her  puny  fist  at  frighted  lands. 
Behind   her  petticoat  the  preacher  stands. 


DANIKL  \YKHSTKR 
[Written  in  1890.] 

No  monument  above  his  grave  is  reared. 
A  simple  tablet  bears  his  name  renowned. 
Shall  dull  oblivion  for  him  be  feared? 
A  marble  fane,  with  shining  turrets  crowned, 
Would  fail  to  glorify  this  hallowed  ground, 
Or  have  his  memory  be  more  revered. 
He  spoke  to  us  from  out  the  Nation's  past, 
When  ruin  shadowed  hill  and  vale  and  glen. 
His  lofty  words  awoke  us  like  a  trumpet  blast; 
They  filled  vast  armies  with  impassioned  men. 
So  Grandeur  stalks  his  church-yard  by? 
Such  men  as  Daniel  Webster  never  die. 


SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

CENTRAL  AMERICA 

[From   "Sun  Worship  Shores."] 

The  fruits  are  clad  in  golden  hue, 

Romance  is  on  the  sportive  wind; 

The  verdured   vales,  the  skies  of  blue, 

Bewitch   the   soul — enchant   the   mind. 

What  annals  of  a   storied  past 

O'er  all  these  lands  a  glamour  cast. 

What  names,  adventures,  feats  of  arms, 

High  deeds  of  brave,  intrepid  worth 

Traditions    olden   summon   forth, 

Arrayed   in   gay,   romanceful  charms, 

On   these   fair   shores    of   summer    seas; 

Dim  tales  of  explorations  bold 

For  buried  cities,  pearls  and  gold; 

For  seizure  of  rich  argosies; 

Of   warfare   for   imperial   sway, 

Of  crimes,   of   cruelties    untold. 

They  float  upon  each  ocean  breeze, 

Pervade  each  isle,  each  sunlit  bay. 

Some  ruin  meets  an  idle  glance 

To  mark  a  corsair's  bold  advance; 

There   gold   was  found,  or  wealth  was  hid 

By  some  rapacious  ocean  Cid — 

Rude  king  of  crime's  audacious  band; 

The  charm,  the  spirit  of  this  land 

Is  old  and  wonderful  romance. 

Here  flows  the  sea  Balboa  found. 

No  monolith  or  famous  ground, 

Or  crest  aglow  with   sacred   flame, 

Conveys  to  us  his  deeds  and  fame. 

No   land  or  stream  is  named  for  him, 

Of  Spanish  chiefs  the  peerless  one, 

His  ocean  shines  till  shores  are  gone. 

Behind  its  golden  western  walls 

The  glorious  Sun-god  nightly  falls, 

In  pilgrimage  to  zones  of  dawn — 

Mysterious  deep  men  pondered  on, 

When   rose    Atlanta's    vesper    hymn! 

It  laves  shore  line  of  bright  Cathay, 

Of  Australasia  far  away — 

And  where  the  Polar  stars  are  dim, 

Its  ice-fields  roll  and  surges  play. 

But  earth  and  isles  and  foamy  sea 

Form  one  vast  wreath,  O  knight,  for  thee. 

While  southern  stars  the  scene  surveyed, 

Fame  waved  aloft  her  dazzling  blade, 

And  gave  to  thee  thine  accolade. 


I  1)  VI.S    OF    BO  HEM  I  A  159 


ONK   LAND 

Tin-  American  Flag  will  be  unfurled 
From  where  the  Polar  snows  gleam  in  the  sun, 
To  where  the  Tropic  of  Cancer  spans  the  world. 
By  peaceful  arts  all   regions  will  be  won. 


A    FRONTIER  SABBATH 

All  night  long,  in  the  moonlight, 

Was  heard  the  sweet  notes  of  the  pistol — 

And  the  pleasant  shriek  of  the  victim. 

— Lieutenant   Derby 

How  sweetly  dawned  the  gentle  Sabbath  day. 

Festivities  began  with  William  Blake, 

A  rustler  on   the  road  of  some  renown. 

To  test  a  weapon  of  imported  brand, 

He  bagged  a  Mexican — Moreno  called. 

For  sport  a  coroner  was  found.     Thereupon 

A  due  and  proper  inquest  scene  ensued. 

This  was  the  verdict  written  out  and  signed: 

'We,   the  jury,  do  declare  that  quite  a  stiff 
Arizona  zephyr  blew,  which,  as  the  corpse 
Was  walking  on  the  square,  concentrated  on  his  back, 
And  bored  a  hole  clear  through  him,  and  he  died." 

These  merriments   led   up  to  drinks, 

And  everybody  soon  was  feeling  fine; 

Then  bull-fights  emptied  out  the  social  halls. 

They  drew  a  mob  of  every  race  and  hue. 

One  fearless  matador  threw  up  a  scarf 

Of  crimson  tint,  to  dodge  a  bovine's  charge, 

But  slipped  and  fell.     The  bull  was  quick, 

And  put  two  hoofs  upon  the  fighter's  back, 

And  pinned  him  to  the  sand. 

Then  taurus  turned  his  mighty  head, 

And  ran  a  horn  down  through  his  helpless  foe. 

'Twas  slow  withdrawn,  besmeared    with  gore. 

Then  down   the  other  horn  was  swiftly  sent. 

Delighted  howls  and  yells  went  round  the  ring, 

And  brought  the  pleasing  contest  to  a  close. 

Some  noted  Yuma  ladies  blew  in  town, 
Which  caused  a  public  ball  to  be  decreed. 
The  fun  began  at  ev'ning's  pensive  hour, 
And  all  the  outlaws  of  repute  were  there. 
Free  mescal  flowed  and  music  tore  the  air. 
An  incident  involved  a  moment's  pause; 


160  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Two  gentlemen  desired  a  lady's  hand  in  dance, 

And   in  the  brief  discussion  that  ensued, 

One  gentleman  was  killed.    They  rolled  his  body 

Underneath  the  music  stand.    On  went  the  dance, 

And  joy  was  unconfined  until  the  Yuma  belles 

Made  curt  remarks  about  their  darker  sisters  there. 

In  hope  to  quell  an  idle  storm,  Bill  Blake 

Cried  out:     "All  hands  take  pardners  for  a  waltz." 

The  haughty  Aztec   ladies   made  demur — 

They  said  they  much  preferred  a  chaste  quadrille. 

Thereon  the   Yuma  ladies  chose   a   waltz, 

And  low  but  dire  a  slight  dissension  grew. 

Anon  each  caballero  deemed   it  wise 

To  back  his  lady's  wish  with  modest  word. 

Bill  Blake  at  last  pulled  out  his  trusty  gun, 

And  swore  that  he  was  chief,  and  that  a  waltz 

Was  duly  jotted  down  on  his  program. 

A  shot  was  heard  and  William  fell. 

With  sundry  faults,  Bill  had   his  friends; 

Nobody  knew  how  many  men  he'd  killed; 

He'd  held  his  own  in  every  sort  of  brawl, 

But  now,  at  last,  he'd  got  a  dose  himself. 

The  other  man  was  not  so  much  to  blame, 

But  still  it  seemed  a  sort  of  row 

Was  something  that  was  due  to  manly  worth, 

And  so  they  pulled  their  guns  and  ambled  in. 

Lead  flew!     Every  gent  and  lady  there 

His  or  her  revolver  drew,  and  pumped  away 

For  precious  life.    Five  men  were  killed  and  some 

Were  gathered  up  and  carried  home. 

Three  ladies  also  underwent  repairs. 

The  careless  comment  of  the  rustlers  was 

That  a  more  soulful  Sabbath  never  passed 

In  any  lively  town  on  that  frontier. 


GUATEMOZIX'S  DEATH  PLAIXT 

Hail!  gentle  Death,  that  gives  release 
From  every  ill,  gives  final  peace; 
Dispels  each  woe,  and  builds  a  stair 
Whose  shining  steps  and  rails  of  gold 
With  brilliance  pierce  the  cloudy  fold 
Of  mundane  skies,  and  stretch  afar 
To  where  rest,  dreams  and  visions  are. 
My  nation's  foemen   I  defy, 
And  on  a  bed  of  roses  lie. 


DVLS    OF    BOHEMIA  161 


AKMANA 

I  cannot  give  thee  treasures  rare — 
Gems  that  shine  where  Ganges  flows, 
But,  love,  I  place  a  regal  rose 
Amid  thy  wealth  of  raven  hair, 
And  on  thy  rose-red  lips  I  press 
A  true-love  kiss  for  none  but  thee. 
Many  a  maid  has  heart  distress, 
Disdains  her  gems  brought  o'er  the  sea, 
Nor  in  pure  gold  perceives  delight, 
Because   (her  gold — her  gems  despite) 
No   lover   bows  to  her  the   knee. 
Many  a  proud,  unhappy  dame 
Would  lavish  all  her  envied  gold 
For  eyes  like  thine;  for  cheeks  aflame, 
And  form  like  thine  of  peerless  mould; 
Would    barter   wealth,   rich   diadem, 
Her   palace   home,   resplendent   gem, 
And    rubies    rich    as   golden   wine, 
For  that  lone  rose  and  hair  like  thine. 
O   youthful   beauties   far   outshine 
The  treasures  of  Golconda's  mine. 


BOHEMIA'S  FOE 

I  mourn  a  spoiler  that  invades 
Bohemia's  fields  of  roses  white. 
Around  its  path  perfection  fades 
As  smitten  by  Contagion's  blight. 
Ah!    Poesy,  thy  children  dread 
The  venom  of  one  lurking  foe. 
In  rage  it  lifts  its  loathsome  head, 
Its  deadly  eyes  with  hatred  glow. 
'Tis    Penury,  with  clammy   coils 
Cold  as  the  hand  of  brutal  Death. 
High-soaring  aims  it  swiftly  foils, 
They  vanish  at  its  deadly  breath, 
At  sight  of  it  Ambition  flies, 
And  Genius  'neath  its  torture  dies. 

0  Poverty,  I  hate  thy  name, 
Thy  semblance  or  remotest  frown; 
Like  some  young  poet  born  for  fame, 
Yet  weary  waiting  for  his  crown, 

1  shrink  at  rustling  of  thy  folds, 
And   shun   the   standard   Glory   holds. 
Ofttimes  my  heart  grows  strangely  weak, 
Yet  swells  the  impulse  fiercely  strong; 
Some  day  my  silent  lips  will  speak, 

My  soul  burst  forth  in  floods  of  song. 

il 


162  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

DRAGON  CANON 

It's  a  troublous  world, 
They  say  in  the  song, 
So  lend  us  a  hand — 
It's  not  any  wrong — 
It's    the    golden    rule 
Of  the  Sunday  school 
To  help  folks  on. 

He's  all  played  out, 
He's  going  it  strong — 
Tarantula  juice! 
He  won't  last  long. 
He'll  strike  bed  rock 
Where  he  don't  belong, 
So  give  him  a  shove, 
And  boost  him  strong. 
O  help  him,  boys, 
With  generous  will. 
He's  going  down  hill. 
Give  him  a  shove — 
Bowl  him  along. 

His  mule  is  dead, 
His  credit  is  gone, 
His  grub    used    up, 
His  claim    jumped   on. 
O  help  him,  boys; 
It's  only  a  rule 
Of  the  Sunday  School, 
Without  much  noise 
To  help  folks  on. 

When    he    thumped    a   bar 
All  hands  took  a  drink. 
WThen  you  needed  a  coin 
You  got  it,  I  think. 
He  did  some  good 
When  able  and  strong, 
But  now  he's  played 
As  an  old  time  song. 
O,  jump  on  him  bad; 
Yes,  tramp  him   strofig. 
He's  a  regular  cad 
Who's  all  gone  wrong. 
Give  him  a  lift, 
Bowl  him  along. 
It's   never   wrong 
To  help  folks  on. 


1  I)  VLS    OF    BOH  KM  1  A  163 

I'll  stake  him  with  dust — 
Noiif  of  you  shout. 
I'll  rustle  the  grub 
To  send  the  man  out. 
He'll    find    a   good    mine, 
Without  any  doubt, 
And  when  he  comes  back 
With  cash  on  his  thong, 
There's  not  any  lout 
Will  sing  him  a  song, 
While  I  am  around, 
And  bowl  him  along. 

It's  only   a   case 

We.  quite  often  see. 

I'm  hot  round  the  collar — 

You    hear    me! 


COLOIX  VENDOME 

[Written  in    Paris  in  1871,  after  viewing  what  was  left  of 
Napoleon's  column — torn  down  by  the  Communists.] 

Insane  with  hate  of  tyranny  and  crown, 

The  fools  have  torn  the  soldier's  trophy  down. 

'Twas  built  of  cannon  captured  in  his  wars, 

When  forth  he  moved  to  break  the  bolts  and  bars 

Of   Europe's   dungeons,   foul   with   feudal   rust, 

And   strew   her  petty  despots   in   the   dust. 

He  paved  the  way  for  freedom  yet  to  be — 

Almost  he  set  the  captive  nations  free — 

And  then  alas  he  paused,  renounced  his  lofty  fate, 

And  stooped   to  baubles   of   imperial   state. 

These  gilded  toys  to  him  brought  no  repose, 

Yet  lands  are  freer  for  his  giant  blows; 

The  peasant   now   his   ancient   master   braves, 

The  despot  cowes  before  hereditary  slaves; 

The  robber  knight  relies  no  more  on  castle  walls, 

But  pleads  his  cause  in  parliamentary  halls. 

Great  as  Napoleon  was,  and  great  his  early  plan, 

He  was  no  more  than  what  he  was — a  mortal  man. 

Since  History  began  her  stately  part, 

And  wizard  lore  of  war  had  olden  birth, 

A  greater  master  of  Destruction's  art, 

A  greater  soldier — ne'er  bestrode  the  earth. 

He  wielded  mighty  force  with  peerless  mind. 

Not  Alexander,    Charlemagne,    combined — 

Not  Caesar,  Cyrus,  Hannibal,  compare 

With  France's  wonder  and  the  People's  king, 

And  with  his  fame,  which  burdens  Europe's  air, 

The   utmost   mortal   centuries   will   ring. 


164  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

CAMP  AT  LAKE  PROVIDENCE 

In  fitful  sounds  War's  clamor  comes. 
Afar  I  hear  the  roll  of  drums, 
The  trumpet  peals  in  martial  pride. 
Anon  the  strains  of  war  subside, 
And  then  a  moan  of  Carib  seas, 
Low-voiced  is  borne  on  balmy  breeze. 
What  though  upon  the  sunlit  shores 
The   brazen   guns   aligned   appear? 
No  gleam  of  weapon  startles  here, 
No  scene  reminds  of  martial  bays, 
But  happy  Earth  the  Sun  adores, 
That  o'er  the  world  in  splendor  pours — 
In  lavish  pomp — his  golden  rays. 
Ah!  deem  not  Peace  prepares  to  reign, 
That  strife    is   past,  its  tumults  o'er. 
The  camps  are  dense  on  yonder  plain, 
They  whiten  all  the  sylvan  shore, 
And  ere  yon  pallid  moon  shall  wane, 
War's  trump  will  sound,  his  cannon  roar. 


DAKOTA  SNOWS 

December  skies  frown  o'er  a  zone  of  snow — 
A  Polar  waste  appalls  a  weary  gaze. 
Fair  streams,  unseen,  in  icy  fetters  flow; 
Bleak  desolation  wide  the  eye  surveys. 
The  sun  has  fled;   the  earth,  alas!    is  cold. 
Hoar  Winter  has  all  regions  in  his  fold, 
A  world  is  in  its  pallid  cerements  rolled. 

Though  gloomy  Russian  plains  as  cold  as  these, 
Napoleon's  fated  army  forced  its  way, 
With  Cossack,  Famine,  wintry  gales,  disease, 
All  hounding  on  its  awful  trail  for  prey. 
What  hecatombs  fell  on  that  fearful  march, 
When  human  hate  with  Nature's  rage  combined. 
No  happy  view  was  'neath  all  heaven's  arch — 
Despair  led  on  and  Ruin  trailed  behind. 
Alas!   Napoleon  then,  with  mournful  mind, 
Must  well  have  mused  o'er  Genius  desolate, 
And  owned  how  vain  a  thing  is  mortal  man, 
When  helpless  'neath  capricious  Fortune's  ban, 
When  goaded  by  the  ruthless  hand  of  Fate. 
And  yet  that  black  disaster  proved  him  great. 
What  though  Dakota  scenes  are  gloomy,  dread, 
When  snowy  winter  holds  his  cruel  reign? 
Its  autumn  moon  shines  o'er  an  empire  plain 
That  groans  with  massy  weight  of  golden  grain, 
Nor  do  its  manly  sons  disdain  or   fear 
This  ruder  season  of  their  changing  year. 


1  I)  VLS    OF    BOHEMIA  165 

CAMP  OX  TIIK  COLDWATER 

[1862.1 

The  north  wind  o'er  each  fallen  brother  grieves, 
And  strews  his  lonely  grave  with  forest  leaves. 


"HACK  Sl'iriDE" 

Better  a  single  child,  nourished  and  trained, 
Than  myriads  born  to  misery  and  vice. 


CAESAR 

A  thousand   cities  carried   by   assault, 

A  million  valiant  foes  in  battle  slain, 

A  million  captives  sold   to  servitude — 

All  this,  and  more,  that  he  might  briefly  reign. 


NAPOLEON  THE  GREAT 

On  his  desolate  isle  far  grander  he  seemed, 
Than  when  in  the  passion  of  battle  he  dreamed 
Of  Europe  repulsed  and  his  throne  redeemed. 
Though  a  world  in  arms  dishonored  his  crown, 
Shall  the  slanders  of  foes  dim  his  giant  renown? 
His  martial  adieus  o'er  an  empire's  grave 
Will  long  resound  in  the  hearts  of  the  brave. 


TAMAR 

This  plaintive  note  was  from  a  Mormon  maid, 
Who  dwelt  far  south  in  Utah's  granite  hills. 
As  pure  as  waters  of  her  mountain  rills 
Her  spirit  wcs;  dense  hair  of  raven  shade 
Upon  her  brows  in  heavy  tresses  laid; 
The  roses's  bloom  was  on  her  cheek. 
Ah!  how  her  lustrous,  brilliant  eyes  could  speak. 
Her  form  was  of  a  full,  magnific  mould, 
For  she  was  mountaineer  and  rider  bold. 
Smile  not  at  penmanship  and  language  poor, 
For  college  arts  ne'er  found  her  lowly  door. 
She  was  a  rose — a  star  in  bright  relief; 
'Respectably  yours,"  she  signs  her  message  brief. 
Ah,  me!   perhaps  she  pines  as  fifteenth  wife 
Of  some  old  bishop  of  unpleasant  ways. 
I'll  breathe  a  sigh  above  her  wasted  life, 
Then  cast  her  faded  letter  in  the  blaze. 


166  SOX  OS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 


THE  DISMAL  RULE 

When  you  see  a  man  who  is  making  money  fast, 

Always  offer  him  a  friendly  helping  hand, 

When  you  meet  a  chap  whose  golden  days  are  past, 

With  melancholy  tales  of  fortunes  overcast, 

Reveal  an  idle  sorrow,  so  he  can  understand, 

And  have  him  spread  his  pinions  for  the  bitter  land. 


THE  GRIEF  OF  DE  LEOX 

For  vanished  youth,  O  knights,  I  mourn. 

A  summer  cloud,  an  idle  cross, 

A  fancied  grief,  might  well  be  borne, 

But  not,  alas!  this  mighty  loss. 

My  life  hath  seen   its  summer  prime, 

My  beard  is  hoar  with  frosts  of  time, 

My  flowing  hair  is   silver  white 

As  driven  snows  of  Iceland's  clime. 

O  precious  years,  forever  flown, 

What  argosies  of  deep  delight 

By  mellow  gales  were  softly  blown 

O'er  thy  still  seas  in  starry  night. 

0  years  that  fled  in  sweet  disdain, 

Your  memories — an  Aidenn   bright — 

Oppress  me  with  delicious  pain. 

Then  Fortune  blessed — 0  Pleasure  smiled; 

Around  me  were  illusions  wild, 

Mad  fantasies;   all  gorgeous  dreams 

Of  sanguine  hope  and  regal  pride 

Arose  like  bubbles  on  the  tide 

Of  shining,  tranquil  inland  streams 

That  on  to  sullen  oceans  glide. 

Then  strains  burst  forth  from  rosy  lips 

That  win  no  more  wild  rapture's  praise, 

And  orbs<  now  cold  in  Death's  eclipse 

Magnetic  flashed  with  passion's  blaze. 

Too  soon,  alas!  life's  glories  went. 

Now  looms  the   end — an  ocean  black. 

What  frenzied  cry,  what  wild  lament, 

What  charm,  O  years,  can  call  you  back? 


A  COMMENTARY 

Caesar  and   Sertorius  pardoned  all — 

Their  own  blood  drenched  them  at  their  fall; 

Fierce  Marius  and  Sylla  slew  their  foes, 
And  died   'mid  scenes  of  calm  repose. 


I  DYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  167 

YOYACJK  OF  MAdKLLAN 

Adieu,  O  knights,  to  scenes  of  ease — 

For  Coromandel  bear  away. 

O  trim  our  sails  for  stormy  seas, 

And  look  to  see  the  lightnings  play, 

And  list   for  breakers   through   the   night, 

And  lashings  of  the  billows   green 

On  sands  and  rocks  and  shoals  unseen, 

And   roar  of  surges  fiercely   white. 

For  isles  of  Indus  gaze  at  morn, 

Far  looming  in  portentous  might, 

And  hurling  back  blue  floods  in  scorn. 

On  Orient  seas  of  ills  beware, 

Mark  where  the  tides  flow  rude  or  fair, 

Where  danger   threats   our   ocean    path, 

Where  tidals    roar    in   foamy   wrath. 

Our  course  around  the  world  we  dare. 

Xo  more  of  idle  revelries, 

Of  thoughts  of  dames  and  pleasant  ease — 

O  sail,  this  voyage  out  with  care; 

For  stormy  scenes,  for  ills  prepare, 

And  we  will  cross  Zipangi  seas. 


XATIOXAL  HYMN 

My  country,  'tis  of  thee, 
Land    of   monopoly, 

Of  thee  I  mourn. 
Land  where  rich  folks  reside, 
Land  of  the  nabob's  pride, 
From  every  mountain  side 

Loud  wails  are  borne. 


THK  MINNESOTA  MASSACRK 

[Outbreak  of  the  Sioux   in  1862.] 
The  Sioux  were  forth  like  fiends  from  Hell. 
The  plains  re-echoed  writh  their  yell 
Of  savage  hate,  and   homes  ablaze, 
And  shrieks  that  on  the  midnight  fell, 
Told   where  they  rode  their  bloody  ways. 
Upon  the  doomed  frontier  they  swarmed — 
Sleuth-hounds  of  death,  vile  dogs  of  war, 
Nor   infancy   nor  age   could   bar 
Their  brutal  wrath.     Half-naked,  armed, 
Vermilion-daubed,  ferocious,  wild, 
Their  scalp-locks  trailing  to  the  wind, 
Fell  demons  on  their  onset  smiled, 
And  smcke  and  wreck  were  strewn  behind. 


168  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 


AN  ADDITIONAL  PLEASURE 

"I  always  like  to  play  with  fellows  that  are  poor," 
A  Denver  gambler  said,  as  we  exchanged  our  views. 

"Why  so?  I  never  heard  a  man  say  that  before, 
You  ought,  of  course,  such  adversaries  to  refuse." 

"You  see,"  he  smiled,  "it  hurts  a  poor  man  so  to  lose." 


THE  OLD  PAPER  MILL 

Sing,  poet,  sing — O  sing  your  fill; 
Print  your  trash  and  "shoot  to  kill," 
But  when  you  have  your  crazy  will, 
Your  stuff  will  go  a  dismal  route, 
And  reach  a  port  not  thought  about — 
The  "Dead  Book"  place — the  paper  mill. 


SAN  FRANCISCO  SAND  LOTS 

[1878.] 

Buckle  on  your  rifles. — Denis  Kearney. 
Buckle  on  your  rifles,  boys — 
O  saddle  your  cannons  all; 
Gallop  your  canteens  through  the  streets, 
When   you   hear   the    Hoodoo   call. 

Fill  your  bayonets  full  of  shot, 
And    keep    your    blankets    dry, 
And  pepper  away  with  pickled  pork 
When  hell-boun-d  thieves  are  nigh. 

I'd  have  you  fry  your  tent  stakes  rare, 
And  carefully  boil  the  succulent  shell; 
Of  grape-shot  juice  drink  deep,  my  boys; 
Your  stirrups  load  to  the  muzzle  well. 

O,  paint  the  city  red,  my  boys; 
Your  manly  forms  with  booze  embalm, 
Wear  out  your  throats  with  awful  yells, 
Then  all  creep  home  like  Bopeep's  lamb. 


HEROES 

Balboa   climbing  the   lofty    Isthmian   peak, 
Paul  Jones  upon  his  captured  foeman's  bloody  deck; 
Mad  Anthony  Wayne,  commanding  his  charging  lines; 
Forget  them  not!    Within  their  veins  coursed  noble  blood. 


IDYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  169 

WAR    IX    LOl'ISIANA 

Shrill  the   fife   in  yonder  camp, 
The  clarions  blare  and  soldiers  cheer. 
I  hear  the  column's  heavy  tramp; 
'Neath  wild  wood  boughs  the  tents  appear. 
Gay  banners  wave  and  weapons  shine 
Along  each  blue  battalion's  line, 
And  like  a  rumbling  thunder's  roar, 
From  Vicksburg's   far  embattled   height 
I  hear  the  rebel  cannons  pour 
Defiance  of  the  nation's  might. 
Across  the  tide,  the  wood,  the  plain, 
Far  swells  their   peal  of  stern   disdain. 
The  bayous  fringed  with  native  wood, 
Catch  echoes  from   the  river's  flood, 
Where  navies  in  their  pride  contend, 
And  rude  notes  of  the  battle  blend. 
War's   clamors   roll,  but   Nature   smiles 
At  fierce  Destruction's  efforts  drear; 
Where  swift  the  march  of  Strife  defiles, 
Where  Treason  rears  its  fortress  piles, 
Red  roses  bloom,  gay  buds  appear. 
When  all  this  wrathful  storm  is  past, 
And  these  heroic  toils  are  done, 
The  plains   wrill   glow   with   joy   at   last, 
Green    ivy   trail    the   ramparts    won, 
And  roses  wreathe  each   idle  gun. 
So  scenes  of  horror  pass  away, 
As   Peace  prevails  o'er  sullen   Force. 
Green  earth  will  robe  in  tresses  gay — 
Conceal  the  trace  of  Ruin's  course. 


MAX   WITH  A  JAW 

How  dear  to  his  heart  is  the  noise  his  voice  makes, 
When  his  throat  is  in  order  and  his  utterance  clear; 
Like  a  volcanic  shock  the  whole  house  he  shakes, 
He  thunders  and  roars  like  a   Mexican   steer. 
His  opinions  he  bellows  without  any  fear; 
Ay,  preaches  his  rot  with  fury  and  zeal, 
Till   far  through  the   hostelrie  his  sentiments  peal. 
When  he  raises  his  voice  to  the  uttermost  pitch, 
The  traveling  man   murmurs:    "The  son-of-a-Witch! " 
And    Bedlam    itself    is    apparently    near. 

O,  the  Texico  bloke, 

The  Trinidad   bloke, 

The  Santa   Fe  bloke — 
They  poison  and  pester  the   Cow   frontier. 


170  SONGS-  OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

AX  OLD  TRUXK 

Graveyard  of  the  past!  with  here  and  there 

A  photo,  keepsake,  tress  of  hair. 

Whose  was  it?     I've  forgotten,  I  declare. 

What  stacks  of  letters!     Cremate  these  remains 

Of  Youthful  ecstasies  and  pains — 

These  relics  qf  romantic  days. 

Consign  them  to  the  kitchen  blaze. 

What  fools  young  people  are. 


ALMEIDA  SAILING  FOR  IXDIA 

In  glow  of  Lusitania's  moon 

He    revels   in   wild    visions    fair — 

This  dreamer  with  dense  golden  hair. 

Sweet  ocean  isles  with    bays  are  strewn, 

Afar  the  foe  in  terror  flies, 

And  ere  the  blaze  of  Triumph's  noon. 

The  minarets  of  Ind  arise 

In  balmy  hush  of  starry  skies. 

Imperial  pomps  his  heart  console 

As  oriental  domes  unroll 

O'er  aisles   ablaze   with   royal    state. 

Voluptuous   paths   his   pleasure  wait 

As  grand,  wild  music  falls  or  swells 

Upon  the  air  faint  with  perfume. 

The  fountains  of  a   thousand   wells 

Of  lawless  bliss  his  lips  may  drain. 

All  sensuous  joys   his   hours    illume, 

In  scenes  unmarred  by  mortal  pain. 

Is  this  thy  dream  in  youthful  bloom, 

O  free  lance  pale  with  martial  care? 

O  Fate  conceal  his  rueful  doom. 

Where  somber  shores  no  splendors  wear, 

On  ocean  isle,  his  lonely  tomb. 

His  frays  await  on  fields  obscure, 

In   strife   remote,   with    foemen    vile. 

In  vain  the  wiles  of  Fame  allure. 

The  savage  o'er  his  corse  will  smile, 

And   wear  his  arms  of  honor   pure. 

Not  aisles  of   glory,   lofty  fate, 

Or  winsome   scenes  of  pleasure  fair, 

But  ruin,  sorrow,  death  await, 

O  free  lance  pale  with  martial  care. 


I  1)  Y  I.S    OF    Hi)  II  KM  I  A  171 

TIIK  SOLDIKU'S  CKKKD 

One   day   at  a  time 

Is    enough    for    a    soldier. 

If  all   right   to-day 

No  thought  of  the  morrow, 

Or  days   that  are  gone. 

To-day  is  the  one  great  day. 

Rest  by  the  fire— 

There's  a  watch  on  the  line. 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  SIXALOA 

The  path  of  Spanish  glory  is  not  paved 

With  gold,  with  crowns  of  laurel  everywhere. 

The  dust  of  Colon  is  in  foreign  grave, 

De  Soto's  dead  and  half  his  army  slain; 

Cortez,  in  loneliness,  his  age  consumes; 

Nunez    Balboa,    of    such    lofty    fame, 

Poured  out  his  blood  at  low  Davila's  will; 

Almagro  dies  by  great  Pizarro's  hand, 

A  son  avenges — fierce   Pizarro  falls; 

A  royal  order  slays  the  knightly  son; 

Xarvaez  and   his  cavaliers  are  gone; 

De  Ayllon's  knights   in   fair  Chicora  bled; 

By  wound  of  arrow,  in  some  gory  fray 

In  Land  of  Promise,  has  De  Leon  died, 

As  brave  Cordova  fell  in  Yucatan. 

I  deeply  sorrow  for  the  sons  of  Spain, 

Whose  crimes,  misfortunes  and  o'er  tragic  lives 

Do  make  a  desert  of  this  western  world. 

An  utmost  wisdom  learn — O  knights  'tis  this: 

Not   fierce   ambition,    lust  of   gold, 

Or  unavailing  murmurs  o'er  defeat — 

Assumed  indifference  to  pain  or  loss, 

But  calm  and  lofty  manliness  to  bear. 

Endure   the   trials   of   life's   brief  career, 

As  Grecian  soldiers  came  on  battle  plains, 

With   silent   lips — with   firm,   defiant   hearts. 


iiomrs  D 

'Where  fly  you  in  haste,  with  a  joyous  air?" 
'To   the   city    and    land    of    Everywhere. 
And  you,  whither  bound,   my  careless  jade?" 
'To  Anywhere  Land   my  course  is  laid." 


172  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

MIBABEAU 

"Bring  flowers,  that  I  may  take  my  eternal  rest. 

He  stood  between  a  threatened  Tung 
And  millions  mad  with  deadly  rage 
O'er  tyrannies  grown  hoar  with  age — 
Dread  clamors  made  all  Europe  ring. 
With  freedom  for  its  corner  stone 
He  sought  to  save  a  feudal  throne. 
He  stood  supreme — heroic   soul! 
But   treachery    around    him   stole; 
Ingratitude's  keen  shafts  of  steel 
Gave  wounds  'twere  idle  to  conceal. 
The  base  arose  by  arts  of  shame, 
To  mar  his  war  for  public  weal. 
He  fell,  as  falls  a  giant  oak, 
Nor  strange — his  lion  heart  was  broke. 
Sleep,   Mirabeau!    secure  thy  fame. 


AX  OKLAHOMA  CORKSCREW 

Of  many  crimes  'tis  now  accused — 
This    idle    thing,   once   greatly    used 
In   handling  viands   much  abused. 
It  lies  contemptuously  refused. 

With  foolish  loyalty  infused 
Men,   by  other  men,   are  often  used, 
Much  to  their  loss — their  detriment  beside. 
They  then  are  coldly   cast   aside. 
Amid  the  rush  for  plunder,  place  and  pelf, 
They  find  themselves  tossed  on  the  shelf. 
Though  little   else  we  might  expect, 
No  looker  on  is  much  enthused 
To  see   a  faithful   fellow  wrecked. 
Pope,  the  poet,  told  us  long  ago: 
'Use  ev'ry  friend  and  ev'ry  foe; 
Each  person  for  himself,  you  know," 
Or  flowery  words  to  that  effect. 
Corkscrew,  avaunt!    old  friend,  or  foe, 
Out  this  window  now  you  go. 


"SHE  MARRIED  A  TITLE" 

Her  foreign  titles,  baubles,  coronets  are  tame 
Beside    Moll    Pitcher's   patriotic    fame. 
Moll  drove  the  cannon  missile  home,  when  heroes  fell 
To  brave  the  lords  our  shoddy  damsels  love  so  well. 


I  DVLS    OF    BOHEMIA  173 

TIIK  SIXdKK 
KAMI:  TO  <;I:MUS 

The   annals  of  Ambition   teach 

That   splendid  goals  proud   spirits  reach. 

What  if  along  the  solemn  beach 

Of  Life's  broad  sea  the  surges  play, 

And  toss  wild  wrecks  in  savage  mirth? 

These  wrecks  bore  but  the  souls  of  earth, 

But  iron  souls  can  set  at  bay 

The  storm's  wild  wrath,  the  ocean's  rage, 

And    stamp    upon   their   passing   age 

The  impress  of  imperial  sway. 

Press  on,  therefore,  at  last  to  find, 

Despite  defeat  and  fleeting  pain, 

The  sceptre  of  colossal  reign — 

Triumphal  bays  of  peerless  mind. 

No  spoil  is  won  by  cravens  meek, 

But  victors  war  with  purpose  strong; 

They  strike  and  crush,  through  right  or  wrong, 

A  path  to  all  high  goals  they  seek. 

Arise  with  pride  of  Asian  kings 

And  face  the  world's  derisive  gaze; 

Undaunted  snatch  thy  regal  bays 

And  wrear  them  in  the  noon-tide  blaze 

As  from  the  heavens  handed  down; 

All   earth  contains   no  grander  crown; 

The  brightest  of  terrestrial  things 

Will  pale  before  its  gorgeous  rays 

As  stars  before  the  Sun  go  down. 

I  launch  a  curse  upon  thy  path. 

May  every  joy  thy  being  hath 

Be  turned  to  gall;  may  serpents  spring 

Along  thy  way  to  smite  and  sting; 

False  friends  betray,  and  Treason  glide 

In  guise  of  kindness  at  thy  side; 

Abhorrent  ways   await   thy   tread, 

And  thunderbolts  burst  o'er  thy  head; 

The  tempest  war  thee   in  its  wrath, 

And  lightnings  burn  along  thy  path. 

Let  Hope  desert,  and  hate  and  greed 

Despoil   thee   of   each   worthy   meed. 

Be  thine  all  woes  all  men  have  borne 

Since  first  our  planet  wheeled  in  air; 

Face   misery    in   sullen    scorn, 

Deep  disappointment  and  despair; 

Disasters   come,    misfortunes    reign; 

Thine  inner  fires,  smould'ring  there, 

Afflict   thee    with    incessant    pain. 

Then  shalt  thou  sing  some  nobler  strain. 

Know  thou  'tis  indigence  and  shame 


174  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Give    burning    passion    for    a   name, 
And  sorrow  of   a  vast  account 
That  bids  the  bard's  high  spirit  mount 
To  realms  beyond  this   mortal  sphere. 
His  path  is  hemmed  with  woe  severe — 
Who  to  his  lofty  crown  aspires 
Must  blight  his  life  for  sacred  fires. 

A    KKPLY 

Who  conquers  fame  in  this  rude  style 
Will  be  a   knight  of  lofty  zeal, 
Or  rue  his   gifts,  and   only   smile 
At   siren   Glory's   mute   appeal. 
The   singer  of  ambitious  mind, 
Impulses  bold  and  tastes  refined, 
Should,   like   Pindarus,  be  the   guest 
Of  cities,  isles  and  kingdoms  blest. 
High  pomp  should  gild  his  hours  of  ease, 
And  arts  and  charms  his  senses  please;' 
Grand  music  his  great  songs  inspire, 
Proud  Beauty  wake  his  lyric  fire. 
Not  his  to  stoop  to  venal   toil, 
To  mingle  with  the  wrorld's  mad  throng; 
To  lavish  zeal  on  low  turmoil, 
Or   suffer  deep   and   grievous   wrong, 
Or  squander  years   in  useless  pain — 
Those  golden  years  ne'er  come  again. 
Who  bold  aspires  to  high  renown 
Wears   not   resigned   a   martyr's   crown. 
While  yet  the  scornful  heavens  frown — 
Remote  his  coronation  day — 
His   restless  soul   he   chafes  away. 


A  FEMIXIXE  QUERY 

You  ask,  fair  friend,  that  love  be  truthfully  defined. 
'Tis  passion,  sentiment  and  selfishness  combined; 
With  ownership,  and  bondage  too,  not  far  behind. 
For  greedy  men,  'tis  pastime  after  busy  days. 
With  damosels — a    solemn  choice,  a  temporary  craze. 


THE  TALK  FIEND 

"That  quiet  man — is  he  about?" 
"That   quiet   man    is    up   the   spout — 

In   Beulah    Land,   without    a    doubt. 

The  Talk  Fiend  came  and  wore  him  out." 


I  DVLS    OF    BOHEMIA  175 

TIIK   WORLD'S   IXKKST 
There  is  no  hope  for  nations — Byron. 

Wild  forces  rise  at  Ruin's  call, 
And  Civilization  totters  to  its  fall. 


Don't  worry  over  public  ills,  my  son. 
Our  petty  toils  will  soon  be  done, 
Our  crowns  on  high  will  soon  be  won. 
Who'll  manage  things  when  we  are  gone? 
The  busy  world  will   still   roll  on. 


HORSE-AND-HORSE 

"I  will  lead  you  on  to  days  of  glory," 
Said    William    the    Hun. 
Shake,  old   son. 

We  know  the  rest  of  that  wild  story. 
When  manhood's  joys  had  just  begun, 
And  will  and  impulse  both  were  free, 
John   Barleycorn,    the   crafty  one, 
Sang  that  pleasant  song  to  me. 


POOR  DEVIL 

He   was   always    hurried, 
He  stewed  and  worried; 
To  his  toil  he  scurried, 
And  now  he's  buried — 
Over  the  Styx  been  ferried. 


REIGX  OF  THE  PEDAGOGUE 

"With  watchful  waiting  on  the  fence, 
Our  indignation  grows  intense." 
'Twas  thus  he  wrote  of  late  events. 
Go  put  the  scribbler  in  duress, 
And  give  the  villian  much  distress, 
With  mercy  shown  not  in  excess. 
We'll  make  a  whip 
Of    censorship 

To  mure  him  up  in  wretchedness. 
'Twill  make  him  dutiful, 
And  be  so  beautiful 
To  smash  all  precedents 
Of  freedom  of  the  press.    , 


176  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

COUNTESS  DUBARRY 

With  feathers  fine  she  made  her  nest. 
Carlyle  calls  her  a  dirty  pest 
Fit  only  for  a  hangman's  guest. 
(He  was  a  grouch,  his  works  attest). 
Her  final  days  were  much  distressed — 
The  poor  old  girl  died  like  the  rest. 
All  terrified  at  such  a  scene, 
She  perished  on  the  guillotine. 


PRINCE  OF  INDUS 

A  scion  of  the  victor  Tamerlane, 
In  strife  he  throve;  tall  pyramids  of  skulls 
Told  where  his  enemies  had  peace  at  last. 
All  rural  scenes  awoke  his  joyous  praise. 
Flowers  were  his  chief  delight,  and  immense 
The  gardens  that  he  caused  the  slaves  to  rear. 
Gay,  munificent,  no  lighter  heart  in  camp, 
He  led  a  stately  and  romantic  life, 
And  all  the  glories  of  the  land  were  his. 
On  raids  of  war  he  loved  a  wassail  well, 
And  oft  would  camp  in  some  delightful  vale, 
To  get  his  gray  old  emirs  mad  with  drink. 
He   swore  full   abstinence  at   forty  years. 
That  age  attained  he  bade  his  merry  slaves 
Bring  forth  his  costly  golden  revel  bowls, 
With  gems  adorned,  and  threw  them  to  the  poor. 
Magnificent  a  firman   that  he   wrote 
To  win  his  vassals  from  the  use  of  wine. 
When  told  his  chosen  son  was  fatal  ill, 
He  vowed  unto  the  gods  a  mighty  gift — 
A  precious  one — the  noblest  that  he  knew. 
His  courtiers  brought  the  Agra  diamond  forth, 
A  gem   renowned  in   all   the  eastern  world. 
"A  nobler,   greater  gift  behold,"  he  cried; 
Then  thrice  around  the  dying  youth  he  strode. 
Slow  lifting  up  his  hands,  he  prayed  the  gods 
To  spare  the  son — accept  himself  instead. 
The  prayer  was  heard.    The  dying  prince  revived. 
Pale  grew  the  father  and  he  swooned  away. 
They  bore  him  out  among  his  treasured  flowers, 
And  in  the  sunshine  of  a  cloudless  day, 
Breathed  o'er  by  breezes  of  the  land  he  loved, 
In  peace  the  famous  paladin  expired. 


[DYLS    OF    Boll  KM  I  A  177 

01   K  SAINTS  AND  MARTYRS   IN  JAPAN 

The  missionaries  in  Japan  build  fine  houses,  and  live  better 
than  high  government  officials. — Tokio   lh',-«l<l. 

Foxes  have  holes,  birds  of  the  air  have  nests,  but  the  Son 
of  .Man  hath  nut   where  to  lay  his  head. — Jrsiiff  Christ. 
Fanaticism  and  its  lords 

These  basic   principles   enjoin — 
Cant,    hypocrisy,    deceit, 

And  eager  quest  of  golden   coin. 


110!  FOR  VTCKSBURG 

The  call  hath  qpme — we  must  away, 
Farewell  this  green  and  flow'ry  spot, 

And  welcome  now  the  banners  gay, 
Anon   the   rush   of   rifle  shot, 

And  let  the  battle  lightnings  play — 
Our   gleaming   lines  will   falter  not. 

Farewell,  once  more,  the  quiet  camp; 

Farewell   ye  scenes   where  roses   bloom, 
And  welcome  now  the  legion's  tramp, 

The  flash  of  arms  and  wave  of  plume, 
For   ere  young   Luna  lights  her  lamp 

We'll  hear  the  foeman's  cannon  boom. 

Farewell  ye  fields  and  forests  green, 
In  vain  ye  spread  your  charms  for  me; 

I  would  not  linger  though  a  queen 
Arrayed  her  halls  of  dance  in  thee; 

My  spirit  pines  for  a  wilder  scene — 
The  pageant  of  red  victory. 

The  city's  walls  are  proud  and  high; 

Lo!    Death   is  throned  upon  her  steep, 
But  when   our  thund'ring  cannons  ply 

We'll    rouse   her   from    her   giant    sleep, 
And  if  beneath  her  walls  we  die, 

May  glory  shine  where  we  shall  sleep. 


MY   FORBIDDEN  CITY 

The  goddess  Memory  is  there  enthroned. 
I  enter  not.     I  trouble  her  no  more. 

12 


178  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

THE  GRAVE  OF  BRIGHAM 

This  is  the  grave  of  Brigham  Young — 
Much  heard  of  in  the  Gentile  tongue. 
He  sleeps  unhonored  and  unsung. 

A  mortal  man,  he  was  of  clay. 
Unworthy  knave,  he  had  his  day — 
Did  grievous  ill  and  passed  away. 

In  Utah  vales  his  fame  survives. 
He  did  not  live  the  best  of  lives. 
He  suffered  much — from  19  wives. 


JULIAN 

Philosophers,  like  desperadoes,   die 

As  quietly  as  summer  days  go  by. 

Julian — Rome's  master,  autocrat  and  King — 

Had  noble  gifts  of  mind  and  gracious  ways; 

The  bloom  of  health,  and  strength  of  early  days 

A  manly  beauty   that   historians  praise. 

Riches,  power,  pomp,  and  all  they  bring, 

Fell    in    profusion    round   this    mighty   king. 

How  brightly  passed   his  royal   prime; 

Not  in  low  pursuits  that  men  debase, 

But  Learning  charmed  his  idle  time, 

And  helped  him  grace' his  lofty  place. 

War's  trumpet  blew — then   Julian  rose 

To  lead  his  host  against  an  empire's  foes. 

Disdaining  ease  and  sensual  repose, 

The  post  of  duty — Honor's  post — he  chose. 

No  base  regrets  his  brilliant  thoughts  obscured; 

Villas,  pleasure  grounds,  no  more  allured; 

He   couched   at   eve    on   battle   plain 

'Mong    rudest   of   his    martial    slain. 

Sore  wounded  in  disastrous  fray, 

He  saw  his  life  blood  ebbing  fast  away, 

But  spoke  farewell  to  every  friend, 

And  proudly  met  his  warlike  end. 


PATRICK  HENRY 

He  hollered  out  with  all  his  might: 
'Peace!    Peace!    We  are  too  proud  to  fight." 


I  n  Y  I.S    OF    HO  HEM  I  A  179 

DKSPAIK    OF   I)K  AVLLOX 

[From  an  untinished  drama.) 

1)K  AVLLON 

When  Fortune  signals  from  on  high 

With  fearless  heart  cast  thou  the  die. 

I'ause  not  for  vain  and   laggard  thought; 

Heroic  deeds  are  swiftly   wrought, 

And  goals  are  lost  while  moments  fly. 

Crownless  and  in  sport  of  men, 

I  mourn  high  deeds  that  might  have  been. 

Cortez   is    prince   of    Mexico, 

Where  once  in  arms    'twas  mine  to  go. 

An  inspiration  moved   my  soul; 

I  saw  the  path,  I  saw  the  goal, 

I  trembled    on   Decision's   brink. 

I  paused,  alas!  in  fear  to  think; 

To  weigh   the   venture's  glory,   pain. 

This  bolder  leader  in  disdain, 

In  frenzy  snatched  the  golden  chance. 

Swift  as  the  lightning's  dizzy  glance, 

He  has  renown — high  fortunes  bless 

With  gold,  with  honor  and  romance. 

My   wasted   life  is  nothingness. 

No  prize  allures,  no  view  enchants; 

Repulsive  all  my  future  seems; 

Its  flowers  fall  from  deadly  blight— 

0  anguish  of  a  life-time's  dreams 
Gone  out  in  gloom,  in  hopeless  night. 

1  brood   on   all    in   wretchedness. 
At  last  I  cast  illusions  by; 

The  shores  resound  with  smothered  roar; 

-My   martial   hopes,   ambitions,    die. 

I'll  poison  years  with  strife  no  more, 

But  rest  me  in  Tacuban  vale, 

Remote  from  din  or  sorrow's  wail, 

No  suppliant  of  siren  Fame, 

Forgetful  of  misfortunes  past. 

My  sands  of  life  have  fallen  fast, 

Infatuations  old  are  tame. 

How  keen  the  cruel  scorn  of  foes. 

Chicora's  race,  with  fatal  blows, 

Gave   me   despair,  disaster,   shame, 

While  baser   knights  of  lowly  name 

Upon  vice-regal  thrones  repose. 

Ah!    be   it  so,   for   life's  defeat 

Reveals  the  sum  that  Wisdom  knows — 

All  earth  contains   is  but  a  cheat. 

How  swiftly  sped  ambitious  days 

That  bore  but  fruit  of  utter  pain. 


180  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

I  fierce  aspired  to  martial  bays 
That  cannot  cool  a  weary  brain. 
I  roved  o'er  Desolation's  ways 
In   fury   for   colossal   gain. 
The  spoils  I  sought  would  not  repay 
The  joyous  years   I  cast  away. 
There  is  no  wreath  of  glory  bright 
But   hath    adorned    some    other's    brow. 
A  fool  disdains  all  pure  delight 
In  bloody  zeal  to  wear  it  now. 
There  is  no  prize  a  sword  may  reach 
That  hath  not  oft  been  fleetly  won. 
Shall  Time  in  vain  essay  to  teach 
His   moral   stern?     All   hath   been   done. 
The  Incas  piled   their  gloomy  stone, 
Pursued  their  dreams  of  golden  lust, 
•  Pizarro   has   their   mighty    throne — 
He  strews  their  shrines  in  idle  dust. 
Prate  thou  to  fools  of  Glory's  breath, 
Of  honors   in    disastrous   fray; 
Of  daring  deeds  in  face  of  death 
Where  hecatombs  are  swept  away; 
Of  all  the  idle  pomp  of  fame, 
Of  laurels  dyed  in  human  gore; 
Of  grateful  empire's  high  acclaim 
And  History's   immortal   score; 
Of  all  the  horrors  knaves  invent 
To  minister  to  gain; 
Of  all  the  scourges  ever  sent 
To  thrive  on  misery  and  pain. 
I  hate  them  all — the  foes  of  weal, 
The  ruthless  reapers  of  the  grave; 
Fools    only    fight    while    scoundrels    steal, 
And  sov'reigns  spurn  their  mangled  brave. 
The  flimsy  wreath  soon  fades  away, 
The   dauntless   lines   are   soon   forgot, 
And  Death  exults  above  his  prey, 
And  haunts  alone  the  bloody  spot. 
What  empty  prize  shall  now  I  seek? 
Hath  life  no  more?    Ah,  do  not  speak 
To  me  of  love.     There  is  no  kind 
That  ghastly  selfishness  can  find 
No   portal  wide   to  enter  in; 
There   is   no  kind  unstained  by   sin, 
Unmantled  by  a  garb  of  shame, 
Or  worthy  of  the  price  or  name. 
j'  For  me  no  more  is   Glory's  call, 

My  faithful  steel  in  silence  rust; 
I'll  hie  me  to  a  revel  hall 
Till  gloomy  death  shall  end  it  all. 
Espania,  to  her   sons   unjust, 
May  never  know  my  doom  I  trust. 


IDYLS    0  I      BOH  KM  I  A  181 


"ABSENT  MINDED  I',E(  ,(J  A  R>" 

Koniantic  was  our   trysting   place, 

When*   cooling   waters  ever   glide. 

The  roses  bloomed  on  every  side. 

How  green  the  boughs  that  hung  in  place. 

The   tender   winds,   the   stars   above, 

Suggested    dangerous    moods    of    love. 

VY«i   murmured   vows;   we  often  sighed, 

Then  one  another  deified; 

Yet  time  flew  on  at  such  a  pace 

That,  ere  we  deemed  the  night  was  done — 

One-half  our  burning  thoughts  unsaid — the  Sun 

Rose  red  and  round  above  the  river  wide. 

Our  gross  imprudence  we  denied. 


JEAN  PATE JONES 

In  my  Valhalla  stands  Jean  Paul  Jones, 
Who  first  unfurled  our  flag  on  foreign  seas, 
And  from  his  cannon  spoke  in  thunder  tones 
His  bitter  hate  of  tyrannies. 

With  shattered  ship  a  dismal  wreck, 

He  stood  impassioned  on  his  bloody  deck 

And    urged   the   reckless   contest   on. 

Swift  answer  met  his  clarion  call. 

His  heroes  fought  when  every  hope  was  gone, 

Then  saw  the  foeman's  haughty  colors  fall. 

The  rival  bark  was  his — he  leapt  thereon; 

And — master,  victor,  of  the  warlike  scene, 

Encircled  by  his  fighters  brave, 

He  saw  his  own  proud  ship  careen, 

And  slowly  sink  in  Ocean's  azure  wave. 

While  spell  of  war  this  mighty  nation  owns, 

Full  glory   give  to  Jean  Paul  Jones. 


rLEMENTEAT  TRANSPOSED 

Ever  since  the  human  race  began, 

Man  has  been  at  ceaseless  war  with  Man. 


THE   PHILIPPINES 

"The  American  flag  is  here  to  stay," 
Quoth  Dewey   in    Manila   Bay. 


182  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

IX  LINE  OF  BATTLE 

I  sit  beside  a  flowing  stream 
And  Fancy's  hand  is  weaving  fast 

The  fabric  of  a  happy  dream 

Too  deep  with  calm  delight  to  last. 

I  see  no  more  the  camp  fires  red, 
The   ranks   impatient  for  affray, 

The  tents  o'er  hill  and  lowland  spread — 
My  vagrant  thoughts  are  far  away. 

I  dream  of  home,  of  early  friends, 

Of  wild  woods  dear  in  childhood's  day; 

And,  careless  that  the  strife  impends, 
I  further  launch  my  thoughts  away. 

I  dream  of  every  peaceful  scene 

Once  dear  to  boyhood's  thoughtful  eye, 

As  near  my  couch  of  vernal  green 
My  burnished  arms  unheeded  lie. 

I  mark  no  more  the  pomp  of  war, 
Nor  glowing  lines  of  martial  steel, 

Nor  cannons,  old  with  battle  scar, 
That  make  the  foe's  battalions  reel. 

I  dream  of  haunts  where  sunny  days 
Were   never   tinged   with   silent   woe, 

Ere    Treason   bid    our    cities   blaze, 
Or  Freedom  hurled  us  on  the  foe. 

I  dream  that  strife  has  ceased  to  be, 
That  Glory's  paths  no  more  we  tread, 

That  fallen  States  once  more  are  free — 
That  fields  no  more  with  blood  are  red. 

I  dream  that  all  the  gay  delights 
Impulsive  youth   may   hope   to  win, 

Have  called  us  from  these  gory  fights, 
And  hemmed  their  ceaseless  horrors  in. 

Yet,  as  beside  a  flowing  stream 
I  mark  no  more  the  pomp  of  war, 

But  idly  dream   my  happy  dream, 
The   sullen   cannons  loar  afar. 


IDYLS    OF    BO  HEM  I  A  183 

WUITTKN    IN   A  (iARRKT 

I've  often  sighed  o'er   melancholy  bards 
Who  poured  immortal  strains  from  garrets  dim. 
()  wretched  sons  of  song,  here's  my  regards; 
Peruse   my    lofty   Mount   Olympus   hymn. 
I   soar   above   the    sordid   scenes   of  earth, 
I  scoff  at  .Mammon  and  his  idle  snares, 
For  where  my  florid  fancies  have  their  birth, 
There   is   no  savor  of  mundane  affairs. 
I'm  up  aloft,  far  o'er  the  madding  crowd; 
The  dust  of  vanished  ages,  with  his  hoof, 
.My  winged  steed  may  spurn,  without  reproof — 
Then  thrust  his  head  out  o'er  an  attic  roof, 
And  bay  the  world  with  noble  hauteur  proud. 

My  purposes  in  early  life  were  high. 
Ambition's  voice  appeared  to  me  sublime, 
A  royal  message  from  an  upper  sky — 
In  youthful   frenzy  I   resolved  to  climb. 
And  here  T  am,  far  o'er  the  human  race, 
And  elevated  to  a  higher  plane. 
Xo  sound  of  traffic  mars  this  holy   place, 
Here  undisturbed,   the  gentle  muses  reign. 

0  youth   averse  to   drudging  in  a   shop, 
Aim  high — you'll  find  a  room  up  at  the  top. 

Though  here  alone  I'm  not  in  solitude. 

A  thousand  airy  beings  round  me  swarm. 

What  though  my  chamber  furnishings  are  rude? 

Upon   that   naked  floor  the   gods  have  stood, 

Bright-winged — yea,  beauteous — from  Jove's  abode; 

And    by   the   power  of  a   potent  charm 

That  moves  as  noiseless  as  an  echo's  chime, 

1  summon  here,  in  congregations  vast, 
The    mighty    heroes    of    the    storied    past, 
Ivjch  in  the  pomp  and  splendor  of  his  time. 
What  millionaire's  rich  Persian  rugs  are  trod 
By  troops  of  kings,  or  by  a  demi-god? 
Would  I  the  converse  of  such  souls  resign — 
These  conquerors  of  thousand  ancient   thrones — • 
To   puff  cigars  or  sip  at  foreign   wine 

With  banker  Smith  or  wholesale  merchant  Jones? 

Xo!  here's  my  home — my  royal  palace  fair. 
I'm  rich  in  things  that  coin  will  never  buy. 
With   wide  magnificence  I  fill  the  air; 
My  domes  imperial  reach  to  the  sky. 
I  lose  myself  in  dreams — O  wondrous  fair — 
That  all  would  vanish  were  a  mortal  nigh. 
While  heroes,  demi-gods,  move  in  my  train, 
A  human  step  would  that  bare  floor  profane. 


184  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

A   MILLIONAIRE'S    REVERIE 

[Prom   "The  Griefs  of  Bohemia."] 

I  am  a  man  whose  moods  and  glowing  thoughts 

Find   no   expression    in   exalted   song, 

Nor  touch  the  chord  that  thrills  a  list'ning  world, 

Nor  soar  aloft  on  restless  wings  of  rhyme. 

With  inspirations  deep  my  soul  is   mute. 

I  gaze  on  California's  vivid  stars, 

And  know   their   dread  and  awful   language  well. 

I   hear   the  Ocean   speak   and   comprehend. 

All  beauties  California  doth  unfold — 

The  glories  of  her  soft   Hesperian   clime 

I  view  with  raptured  eye.     The  mysteries 

That  common  men  essay  in  vain  to  solve, 

Are  clear  to  me;    so  clear,   I   might  unveil 

Them  as  a  dreaded  oracle  would  speak, 

If  men  resented  not  deep  words  of  truth. 

The  hidden  springs  that  move  this  world's  affairs 

I  touch  with   skill  and  garner   countless  gold. 

The  Spanish  chief  who  robbed  the  land  Peru, 

Bore    off   no   spoils    to   overshadow    mine. 

The   ships   upon   the  stately   sea  I   send; 

Ten  thousand  cars  of  precious  commerce  move 

At  my  command.     Sometimes  I  madly  dream 

The   world  was   only   made   for   men  like   me. 

I    have   odylic   arts,    swift  born   of   thought. 

I    can    within    my    palace    parlor    brood, 

And  make  a  roaring  whirlpool  of  the  niart, 

Engulfing  fortunes,  homes  and  ruined   men. 

And.  yet,  at  times,  weird  thoughts  oppress  me  sore. 

Some  beardless   boy   now  carols   in  the  wood, 

Whose  humble  name  will   awe  the  world 

When   all   my  envied   gold   is  scattered  far, 

And    I    am    dust,    and    utterly    forgot. 

I  have   not   lived   the   lofty    life    I    crave. 

I  have    within    me    true    poetic    fire, 

The  spirit  that  exults  in  royal  song; 

The  glow  of  thought  that  casts  a  glamour  o'er 

All  mundane  things;   the  instinct,  not  defined, 

That  leads  high  bards  to  pour  majestic  lays 

That  charm,  delight  and  mystify  mankind. 

But  this  is  all — I  have  no  skill  to  voice 

The   stately,  pent   up   music  of  my  soul. 


ONLY  SOME  SOLDIERS 

[1863.] 

Here  let  them  slumber,  side  by  side. 

Fame  knows  them  not — with  high  but  homely  pride 

Each  proved  himself  a  man  indeed — and  died. 

For  this,  another's  name  is  glorified. 


I  DYLS    OF    BOH  KM  I  A  185 

TIIK   DOOM  HI)  POKT 

Vampire  booksellers. — Burns. 

Booksellers'  hacks. — Goldsmith. 

Xo\v   Barabbas   was  a  publisher. — Byron. 

[Office  of  the  Reputable  Publishing  Company.  Enter  Mr. 
Grinder.  .Manager.  Mr.  Goth  at  his  post.] 

Mr.  Grinder:  Goth,  the  Foreign  Missionary  Fund — sent  'em 
money? 

Goth:   rsual    sum,   sir. 

Mr.  G.:  Holy  Rollers? 

Goth:  Gone,  sir. 

Mr.    G.:   Empty   Churches? 

Got h :     Also. 

Mr.  G.:     Busy  bodies? 

Goth:     Check  gone. 

Mr.   G.:     Charity  Mongers? 

Goth:    Gone,  sir. 

Mr.  G.:  Very  well.  Let's  to  business.  What's  been  done 
with  "Rimes  Of  A  Ruthless  Rioter,"  by  Oklahoma  Hooter? 
Anything  in  it? 

Goth :  Our  electric  multiple-typewriting  department  had 
the  fellow's  book  yesterday.  Took  its  cream,  you  know. 

.!//•.  G.:  You  wrote  Hooter,  did  you,  returning  his  manu- 
script? 

Goth:    Nicely,  sir. 

Mr.  G.:  Sent  our  thanks? 

Goth:  As  usual. 

Mr.  G.:  Have  a  care,  Goth.  Hell  hath  no  fury  like  a 
poet  scorned.  Where's  the  type-written  copy? 

doth:  Gone  to  Mrs.  Vera  Famous,  with  suggestions:  author 
unknown  to  the  public,  style  crude,  not  up  to  standard,  and 
so  forth.  Same  ideas,  subjects,  titles,  meter,  methods,  etc., 
from  her  gifted  pen  will  receive  attention. 

Mr.  G.:  Ah!  I  fear  you  blunder,  Goth.  Riots?  She  knows 
nothing  about  riots — never  saw  one. 

(;<>fh:  All  thought  of,  Mr.  Grinder.  She'll  follow  him 
closely,  not  using  his  language,  of  course,  or  judiciously, 
perhaps. 

Mr.  G.:     Dangerous,  Goth.  The  copyright  law. 

<;<itl>:  Only  a  bit  of  paper,  Mr.  Grinder.  He  drinks  like  a 
fish,  has  no  money — all  down  and  out. 

Mr.  G.:  Go  ahead  then.  Put  the  puff-writer  at  work. 
Make  Rome  howl.  What's  in  the  morning  paper? 

The  Mightybig  Oil  Company's  after  us  sharp.     It's 


186  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

ravenous,    voracious — hostile.      Our    stock's    in    danger,    Mr. 
Grinder. 

Mr.  G.:  Ha!  I  tell  you,  Goth,  these  predatory  people  need 
attention.  Greed,  graft,  money  madness,  bode  ill  to  the  coun- 
try. It's  a  tiger  jungle  now.  Write  Dr.  Golightly,  Professor 
Grab;  any  of  our  scribes.  We  need  a  book  on  the  subject. 
Don't  be  timid,  Goth.  The  pure  in  heart  inherit  the  earth. 
Remember  it.  I'll  be  out  a  few  minutes  now  at  the  Old  Ladies' 
Anti-Population  Society.  It  meets  to-day.  Au  revoir. 
(Exit  Mr.  Grinder.) 


REVERIE   OF   COLUMIU'S 

Rumors  of  shores  unknown  are  wide  afloat. 

Faint  echoes  of  the  past  o'er  seas  prevail. 

To  courts  of  Egypt   went,  in  times  remote, 

A  Grecian  sage,  to  learn  a  gruesome  tale 

That  ready  credence  won,  but  much  appalled. 

'Twas  of  a  continent — Atlantis  called — 

That  once  did  occupy  this  lonely  sea. 

Five  empires  were,  where  now  these  waters  be. 

Cities  great  they  had,  with  populations  vast. 

Immortal  glory  fills  that  misty  past. 

In  one  black,  awful  night  convulsions  tore 

The  solid  fabric  of  its  ocean  shore, 

And  hurled  Atlantis  in  a  cruel  sea. 

When  Egypt  had  this  tale  of  woe  sublime, 

Its  wise  men  said  the  tale  was  white  with  time. 

What  if  the  lost  Atlantis  yet  may  be 

Above  the  wave,  across  this  ample  sea? 


THE   SAGE   OF   SISKIYOT 

O  dreamy   Thoreau!      Here's  a  man 

Where  all  men  were  when  civil  arts  began; 

Unversed   in  law,  too  proud  for  homely  toil, 

A  tree  his  roof,  lord  of  his  native  soil. 

Behold  this  person  of  the  Digger  breed — 

Without  ambition,  impulse,  aim  or  creed; 

A   homeless   wretch,    in    destitution    quite, 

Repulsive  as  an  ancient  anchorite; 

A  human  buzzard  of  uneasy  wing. 

I!e  has  no  house  or  home,  no  earthly  thing 

Except,  alas!  a  fiendish  appetite. 

He's  now  just  where  his  native  race  began — 

Scarce  more  than  brute,  and  Thoreau's  model  man. 


I  n  YI.S    OF    BOH  KM  I  A  187 

NATTICAL   DISCII'LINK 
A  Ballad  Of  The  Deep  Blue  Sea 

I   went  to  sea  on  a  clipper  ship 

That  sailed  away  from  an  eastern  slip. 

They  made  me  mate — I  swung  the  "cat" 

Whenever   a    sailor   gave   me   chat. 

If  the  "cat"  was  weak  and  his  tongue  was  strong, 

1   triced   him  up  with  a*  leather  thong, 

Or  gave  his  feelings  quite  a  jar, 

With   a   handy   blow   from   a  capstan  bar. 

Sing  heigh!     Sing  ho!  for  the  jolly  tar 

That  sailed  the  ocean  wastes  afar. 

When    I  was  mate  on  the  stormy  sea 
There  never  was  mate  that  ruled  like  me; 

0  never  since  and  never  before 
Arose  such  oaths  as  then  I  swore. 
My   voice  was  shrill  and  fury  quick, 
And  any  sailor  I  could  lick. 

The  sailor  knew  if  he  struck  a  blow 

To   mutiny  court   his  case  would  go; 

So  he  bowed  his  head  and  took  his  whack. 

And  never  dared  to  strike  me  back. 

Sing  heigh!     Sing  ho!     for  the  jolly  tar 

That  sailed  as  mate  of  the  "Shooting  Star." 

When  I  was  mate  of  another  ship 

1  ruled  my  men  with  a  fearful  lip; 
With  a  fearful  lip  and  a  brutal  hand. 
And   a   way   that   sailors   understand. 

1  cursed  the  crew  till  the  air  got  blue, 
And  smote  with  rope  till  the  claret  flew. 
Sing  heigh!     Sing  ho!     and  tiriloo 
For  the  mate  that  sailed  the  ocean  blue. 

Away  \ve  went  till  Neptune's  breeze 
Brought    us   around   to   the   sunset   seas. 
I   took  my  grog  and  chewed  the   weed, 
And    grew  quite   swell  on   tony   feed. 
Ah!    yes,    I    had    fine   times   indeed. 
To  all  on   board   I  showed  my  heft 
\}y    knocking   sailors   right    and   left. 
But   earthly   pleasures  soon  are  past, 
And   such   enjoyments   do   not    last. 
Sing  heigh!     Sing  ho!     for  the  jolly  tar 
That    sailed    the    ocean    wastes    afar. 

One  sultry  night  with  ugly  luck 
A  coral  reef  our  vessel  struck, 
And  very  bad  luck  it  proved  to  me, 


188  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

For  it  fired  me  off  the  foamy  sea. 

I  felt  the  shock  and  launched  a  boat, 

And  left  the  rest  to  sink  or  float. 

Two  sailors  fled  along  with  me — 

Sing  heigh!     Sing  ho!  for  the  stormy  sea. 

The  ship  rode  well  and  we  sneaked  back, 

But  the  Captain's  face  with  rage  was  black. 

He  knocked  me  down  and  sprained  my  neck, 

And  booted  me  off  the  quarter  deck; 

A  fearful  trounce  he  gave  to  me, 

For  I  saw  the  moon  in  apogee, 

And  stars  enough  to  fill  the  sea. 

My  nether  limbs  and  horny  hands 

He  loaded  down  with  iron  bands. 

Sing  heigh!     Sing  ho!  for  the  jolly  tar 

That    sailed    the    ocean   wastes   afar. 

He  smashed  my  nose — which  gave  me  pain — 

And  from  my  waist  he  hung  a  chain. 

Not  even  then  he    let  me  go, 

For  I  saw  the  stars  swing  to  and  fro 

As  he   tossed  me   down  to  a   place  below. 

Sing    heigh!     Sing    ho!     and    tiriloo 

For  the  mate  that  sailed  the  ocean  blue. 

He  locked  me  up  to  watch  and  pray, 
And  used  me  foul  by  night   and  day. 
When  weeks  had  passed  we  came  to  port, 
And  there  he  had  some  further  sport. 
He  rolled  me  out  like  a   bale  of  hay, 
And   I  quit  the   ship   without  my  pay. 
With  spirits  low  and  body  sore, 
I  needed  help  to  get  ashore. 
This  help  the  Captain  gave  to  me 
As  he  booted  me  off  the  foamy  sea. 

But  the  world  is  wide    for  men  like  me, 

And  graft  is  better  than  trips  at  sea. 

I  loafed  around  for  quite  a  spell, 

Till  my  spirits  rose  and  I  got  well. 

Then  I  launched  with  skill  a  corsair  boat 

T  flatter  myself  will  safely  float. 

It  brings  much  coin  to  knaves   like  me, 

And  proves  much  better  than  a  life  at  sea. 

O  better  to  stay  on  a  far  off  shore, 
Better  to  toil  for  a  Jap  or  Turk, 
Than   sail  in   fear  wide  oceans   o'er, 
With  duties  around  you   cannot  shirk, 
And   a   Captain    fierce   on   folks   at   work; 
Better  to  seize  on  tainted  gain, 


IDYLS    OF    Boll  KM  I  A  189 

Thai)   covet   tin-  life  of  danger  and   pain 
The    seaman    lias   on    the   stormy    main. 

I've   ;t    pirate    flag  and   pirate  deck, 

And  1  gather  money  by  the  peck. 

A  collar  of  brass  is  round  my  neck. 

1  buy  up  men  and  sell  their  votes, 

And  have  them  change  their  political  coats. 

Whatever    I     want    these   fellows   do, 

Ami    I    rake    in   sheckels    not    a    few. 

I  sail  for  coin  to  hide  away 

For   liberal   use  on  a  rainy   day. 

Sing  heigh!      Sing  ho!    for  the  jolly  tar 

That    once  was  mate  of  the  "Shooting  Star." 


LIFE 

Life   is  warfare — 
It    is    merely    a   battle. 
Step   into   your   place 
With  sword  and  shield. 
Like   a   champion   strike, 
Nor  suffer  the  crowds 
To  trample  you  under. 
Wounds  will,  be  yours, 
But  none  will  escape  them. 
Retreat  is   cut  off— 
Lo!   nothing  is  left 
But  deadliest  battle. 
The  sands  will  redden 
Around  you  with  blood, 
Parthian  arrows  will  fly; 
Chariots  of  iron  will  rumble 
With  ominous    sound 
To  oppose  you. 
Murmur  not. 
It  is  yours  to  contend 
Till  the  combat  is  ended. 


A    POKT'S  CRITERION 

While  I  am  lighting  a  cigar, 
Suggest  to  me  some  scientific  test. 
Like  a  lot  of  lady  loves  my  poems  are. 
I  lose  my  admiration  for  the  rest, 
And  always  like  the  latest  one  the  best. 


190  SONGS    OF' A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

THE  VOW 

[1863.1 

Amid  the  shock  of  arms 
This  treasure  I  will  bear, 
Where   brave  confront  the  brave, 
And  with   a  proud  despair, 
Play  with  the  rods  of  death 
When  havoc  fills  the  air. 
Who  finds  my  fallen  form 
Will    find  thine  image  there. 


THE  SUBSTITUTION  EVIL 

The  patent-medicine  men 
O'er  substitution  evils  rave, 
But  note  the  anguish  when 
Book-pirates  brave, 
In  anxious   quest   of   graft, 
Mix   up    a   bitter    draught 
For  poor  Ambition's   slave. 
It  gives  the  son  of  song  a  quake. 
A  bitter     draught    the    pirates    make, 
For   nameless   bards  to  take. 
They  mix  it,  and  fix  it, 
And  give   it  a  shake, 
Then  pass  it  to  Apollo's  child. 
Ah,  me!   it's  never  mild. 
'Jesus  wept  and  Voltaire  smiled." 


OUIDA 

[Louise  de  La  Ramee.  | 

Her  glowing •  tales  brought  wealth  and  fame — 

Jewels,    plaudits,    pleasures    came; 

Then  darkness  hid  her  like  a  pall. 

In   foreign   clime  in   penury   she   died; 

Strange    mystery  concealed  her  fall. 

Sham  Sorrow  made  to  her  no  call, 

Nor  homage  paid   in   halls  of  pride; 

Sincerest  grief   to   grief  replied, 

As  humble  friends  put  her  poor  dust  aside; 

Then  kindly  Death  obscured  it  all. 


I  DVLS    OF    BO  HEM  1  A  191 

VKKV    HLANK  YKRSK 
'The  trail  of  the  Serpent  is  over   it  all." 

Villa — dead   or   alive! 
Salute  or  perish! 
Peace  without  victory, 
Slaughters  without  bloodshed, 
Frays   without  combats, 
War  without  battles, 
Battles    without   fighting, 
Armies   without  soldiers, 
Soldiers   without   weapons, 
Wounds  without  injuries, 
Death    without    doctors, 
"Words  without  meaning," 
Speeches!    Speeches!    Speeches! 
Bunk  for  American  idiots! 
We  are  too  proud  to  fight. 
Twould  break  the  heart  of  the  world. 
Rats!       Rats!       Rats! 


A  CALIFORNIA  LOVE 

Shine,  shine,  O  Sun,  to-day; 

Be  blue,  O  skies,  for  me; 

Be  still,   O  shining  Sea, 
And  soft,  O  zephyrs  play. 

Let  all   the   lands  be   green, 
And   heaven's   purest    light 
Descend   in  golden  might 

On   ev'ry  circling  scene. 

Let  perfect  peace  be  nigh 
To  all  the  world  to-day; 
Let    clouds  drift  far  away, 

And    storms   to   deserts   fly. 

O,  perfumes,   load  the  gale; 

O,  roses,  be  more  red; 

O,  lilies,  bow  the  head, 
And  blanch   in  beauty  pale. 

O  birds  that  sing  afar, 

Awake  your  songs  once  more; 

Your  sweetest   music   pour 
Till  shines  the  ev'ning  star. 


192 


SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

O  waters  that  we  hear 

When   night  has   shrouded   all, 

Now  lighter  be  your  fall, 
And  sweeter  to  the  ear. 

O  leaves  that  rustle   low- 
When  moves  the  idle  wind, 
Droop  on  the  air  and  find 

The  softest  sounds  ye  know. 

O  fruits  of  ruddy  hue, 

Your   utmost  splendors   wear; 
I   bid   you  look  more  fair 

Till  falls  the  twilight  dew. 

O  grapes  that  blush  so  deep, 

That  bloom  in  Summer's  glow, 
Sway  in   the  breezes  slow, 

Or  hang  as   if  in  sleep. 

For  she  shall  come  to-day, 

Who  all  my  heart  enthralls; 

A  spell  around  her  falls, 
And  beauty  haunts  her  way. 


THE  FALL  OF  YICKSBUPxG 

What  we  shall  perform  will  be  sufficiently  great. — Claudius 
before  battle. 

In  blaze  of  brightest  of  mid-summer  suns 
The  giant  river  shines  from  shore  to  shore. 
The  ceaseless  booming  of  our  battle  guns 
Disturbs  the  smoky  atmosphere  no  more. 
A  silence  reigns   as  when  a  storm  is  past. 
Our  fleet  of  war  in  gloomy  menace  lies. 
Two  armies  meet,  not  by  the  bugle's  blast, 
But  with  strange   pleasure — with  fraternal  cries. 
No  boast  or  insult  from  a  victor  falls. 
Words  of  rude  chivalry  and  kind  replies 
Are  heard  alone  within  the  conquered  walls. 
Our   banner   o'er   the   fallen  city   flies, 
And  warfares  end  o'er  this  colossal  prize. 

First  armadas  came  from   triumphs  won; 
They  gave  assault — their  stormy  wrath  was  vain. 
A  noble  army  came — high  deeds  were    done; 
The  blood  of  soldiers  poured  like  autumn  rain. 
In  vain  were  mighty  fleet  and  army  found. 


I  I)  Y  I.S    OF    Ho  H  KM  I  A  193 

foe   defiant    held     his   vantage  ground. 
His   lofty   heights  loomed  o'er  a  placid  \va\r 
For   milfs.   with  cannon    wall,  with  fortress  crowned; 
Those   martial    hills    wen-   strewn   with   fallen   brave. 
Then    Science    cried:     "Away    with    armed    Force. 
We'll    i urn    this   ocean    river    from    its   course." 
The   Median  drew   an   Asian  stream  aside, 

rest    away    the    throne   of    Babylon, 
Mut  our  great    river  smiled  at  mortal  pride. 
It  flowed  unchanged  in  stately  beauty  on. 

Now  to  the  sword   the   task   is  left  once  more, 
And  Shiloh's  heroes  throng  the  sunset  shore. 
The  strife  awakes  with  wilder,  madder  zeal; 
The  lowland's  tremble  at  the  cannon's  peal. 
The  sylvan  bird,  amazed,  restrains  its  song; 
Earth   shudders   at    the   thunders  borne   along. 
Fierce    armies    move    on    ramparts    far    away, 
Grand  Gulf's  green  hills  become  their  speedy    prey; 
Not  rivers,  floods  or  fens  can  intervene 
As  martial  skill  unrolls  the  warlike  scene, 
Compels  harsh  Nature's  obstacles  to  yield, 
Outflanks  the  foe,   or  wins   each  bloody    field. 
AT   last   within   his  famous  fortress  walls 
At  bay  he  turns,  wars  to  the  last — and  falls. 
The  Mississippi's  tides,  from  warfare  free, 
Unvexed  flow  on  to  tinge  a  torrid  sea. 
On  high  the  Nation's  notes  of  triumph  swell — 
They  breathe  defiance  of  all  foreign  foes. 
Proud   legions  mourn  the  paladins  who  fell, 
And  Glory  gilds  their  scene  of  last  repose. 


CAREFUL  PIKTY 

With  greenbacks  to  roll, 
Heaven  is  his   goal; 
1 1  is  piety  and-  prayer 
A  business  affair 
To  save  his  soul. 


CLIO'S   KKSl'ONSK 

He  has  covered  this  Nation's   face  with   shame  as  with  a 
garment.  — 


This  verdict  stern  will  Clio's  voice  declare: 

;l  treasons  festered  in  his  lair; 
A  Briton  sat  in  Caesar's  chair." 

ia 


194  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

THE  GOLD  HUNTER 

I  rode  all  day  through  the  Utah  hills. 
Mountain  peaks  clad  in  raiments  of  snow; 
Clear,   cold,   rippling  mountain   streams, 
The   canyons  deep,  unlit  by  noon-day  sun; 
Huge  cliffs  that  walled  the  narrow  rallies  in — 
I   spake  of   these,  extolling   each   in   turn. 

But  the  old  man  toyed  with  his  long  white  locks 
And  smiled — in  a  low  voice  talked  of  gold. 
He  smiled  and  mused,  then  talked  of  gold. 
His  restless  eyes  with  fateful  brilliance  shone. 
I  feared  that  solitude  and  years  of  quest 
For  one  sole  thing    had  turned  his  brain. 
Howe'er  I  strove  his  theme  to  change,  he  smiled, 
Then  mused  awhile  and  talked   of  gold. 
He  told  me  of  his  mine — a  chimney  mine — 
Rich  beyond  a  miser's  dream;    filled  with  gold! 
Save  his  own,  no  human  eye  had  seen  this  mine; 
Ay,  none  should  see  until  the  money  kings 
Fawned  round  him  like  so  many  slaves, 
Then   with   the   power   of   almighty   coin 
Tore   out   the    coffers    of   a    mountain's   heart, 
And    laid  its  hoarded  millions  to  the  gaze. 
This  would  they  do,  and  his  the  lion  share. 

"Things  are  in  earth,"  I  said,  "outshine  this  gold. 
Honor,  love,  respect  of  men,  mental  peace. 
What  is  gold  to  a  desolate  heart? 
To  him  whose  ruined  manhood  mocks  at  tears? 
Whose  life  is  one  long  tale  of  wasted  powers? 
Who,  like  a  suicide,  has  killed  his  fame, 
His  high  achievements  and  all  peaceful  joys?" 

"Gold,"  the  old  man  said  with  peculiar  smile, 
"Will  buy  all  things  that  you  have  named — ay,  more! 
Twill  buy  the   immortal   souls   of  men, 
And  fairest  women  ever,  born  to  love 
Will  bow  submissive  at  the  shrine  of  gold. 
It  buys  the  great  man— body,  brains  and  soul. 
The   public  rostrum  will  he  mount  for  hire, 
And  fiercely  execrate  what  you    command. 
Glory  may  be  bought,  applause  of  men. 
Gold  buys  you  all — you  each  demand   a  price. 
In  olden  days,  two  thousand  years  ago, 
Jugurtha  warred  with  Rome;   it  was  his  vaunt 
He  kept  the  mistress  of  the  world  at  bay 
With   gold;   that  had  he  only  gold  enough 
He'd  buy  out  Rome — monarch,  senate,  throne  and  all. 
Beaten    down   at   last,    a    captive   made, 
They  flung  him  in  a  gruesome  hole  to  starve, 


I  DVI.S    OF    BOIIKMI  A  195 

Mui   only  when   his  mighty  gold  was  gone, 
(lold  is  ruler,  prince  and  arbiter  of  all, 
The  key  that  opes  the  way  to  pleasure  halls, 
To  happiness,  delightful  scenes  of  joy. 
Nothing  withstands  the  pleasant  sound  of  gold. 
Fame,  power,  ease,  life,  itself,  it  buys. 
It   veils  dishorfor,  treachery,  deceit; 
O'ercomes  each  fo*-,  turns  grief  to  merriment. 
Among  despotic  scenes  the  man  is  free 
Whose  coffers  are  well  lined  with  minted  gold, 
While  in  the  freest  land  who  has  it  not 
Is  l;ut  the  rich  man's  tool  and  sullen  slave." 

"My  dream  is  this.     'Xeath  California  skies, 
Where  purple  ocean  spreads  his  foamy   waves; 
Where     sunny  mountains  wear  their  changeful  tints, 
A  tall,  fair  palace  shall  anon  arise. 
The  roses  of  that  soft   celestial  clime 
Shall  scent  the  air — the  breath  of  orange  groves, 
And  odors  of  a  hundred  gorgeous  flowers. 
Close  by  the  sea  my  princely  home  shall    stand, 
Where  lotus  gales  may  fan  its  gardens  wide. 
There  shall  I  reign,  enjoy,  a  potentate 
Supreme,  by  magic    force  of  gold. 
All  pleasures,  pomps,  delights  that  gold  may  buy 
Will  celebrate  my  final  happy  days. 
Yea,    luxuries  will   fill   my   royal   halls, 
And  music,  such  as  Heaven's  angels  peal, 
Will  vivify  each  passing  idle  hour, 
And  fawning  parasites  and  suppliants, 
With  fulsome  flatteries  and  cringing  forms, 
Will    circle   round    in    hope      to   swiftly   please. 
Gods!  what  power's  in  this  mighty  metal,  Gold! 
White  now  these  hoary  locks,  my  forehead  pale; 
Though'  shrill  my  voice,  uncouth  mine  aged  form, 
Think   you   the    dames — the   bright    eyed    damosels — 
Will  not  perceive  some  grandeur  in  my  guise? 
One  thing  believe — they  will  not  spucn  my  gold, 
For  gems,  apparel,  pomp  and  gold 
Do  much  intoxicate  fair  woman's  brain, 
Xor  wildest  miser  hath  such  savage  lust 
For  coin  as  tender  Woman  hath. 
Ah,  well!   the  dames  will  find  me  princely,  too, 
And  life  shall  be,  for  me,  a  poet's    dream. 
So  long  I've  brooded  o'er  this  happy  plan, 
With   wealth  enormous  at  my   finger   tips, 
It  seems  more  sweet    to  revel  in  my  dreams, 
Than  with  my  gold  to  buy  reality." 

I  heard  no  more,  but  woke  at  dawn 
To  find  the  lord  of  millions  rolled 
In  ragged  blankets  on  ttn  oaken  floor. 


196  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Years  afterwards  in  loneliness  he  died. 

Stiff  he   lay  within  his   cabin  rude, 

When  found  by  prowling  Navajoes. 

Stern,  mountaineers,  ere  long,  made  hasty  search 

For  treasures  they  had  heard  wild  rumors  of, 

But   not   an   ounce   of   Utah   gold  was   found. 

The  vaunted  chimney  mine,  replete  with  ore, 

Was  but  a  wriggling  passage   way  in  rocks. 

For  years  a  lonely  maniac,  deranged 

By  vigils    long  and   solitary  quest, 

Had  kept  his  watch  above  a  worthless  pit. 

Meantime,  perchance,  more  happiness  was  his 

Than  had  he  gained  the  vasty  store  of  gold 

He  madly  dreamed  was  hid   beneath  his  floor. 


SATAN  REBUKING  SIN 

Too  sad,   alas!    the   mournful   tale, 
O,  Byron,  skilled  in  song  to  please. 
How  nobler  to  have  cast  a  veil 
Of  purity  o'er  lovers  frail, 
And  left  unstained,  in  sorrow  pale, 
The  beauty  of  the  Cyclades. 


SALUTATION 

Thou  god  of  song,  veiled  on  Olympus  high, 
Apollo,  hail!   saluting  thee  we  die. 


NIGHT  IN  THE  TROPICS 

[From   "Sun  Worship  Shores."] 
How  soft  is  Ocean's  mellow  chime 
In  Equatoria's  balmy  clime, 
Where  stars  glow  with  translucent  rays; 
Where  brighter  constellations  blaze, 
And  vaster  orbs  move  o'er  their  ways 
Than  in  the  North's  pale,  dreary  skies. 
The  soul  an  inward  force  obeys — 
It  worships  in  this  paradise, 
Or  pines  to  range  the  starry  waste 
In  raptures  that  arch-angels  taste, 
Or  visit  orbs  in  heaven's    brow 
That  lure  us  with  their  beauty  now. 


I  1)  Y  I.S    OF    HO  II  KM  I  A  197 

Sweei    idleness   of  sensuous   Night — 

Voluptuous  languor  of  the  clime! 

Existence  here  is  calm  delight; 

None  In  ed  the  flight  of  golden  time — 

None  hasten  here — life  has  no  goal; 

Soft  indolence  and  idle  joy 

These   children   of  the  sun   employ. 

I 'pon  the  reefs  the  surges  roll 

At  Garden's  lonely  ocean  isle. 

Dark  beauties  pause — they  hear — they  smile, 

Then  sing  their  clarion  songs  of  love. 

Through  vernal  haunts  paired  lovers  rove, 

By  coyal  palms  obscured  from  sight, 

For  all  are  lovers  here;   the  night 

Is  but  a  season  for  their  vows. 

The  stars,  the  gale,  the  seas  arouse 

Emotions  of  sweet  Passion's  flame. 

The  woodland  Eve  hath  tender  knight 

As  well  as  noble  haughty  dame. 

These   revelers   gay   children   seem — 

Their  land  is  but  a  summer  dream. 

T  rove    upon    a   starlit    shore, 

For  cool  the  midnight  ocean  air; 

I  hear  the  restless  billows  roar 

Far  off    to  sea — though  foamy  there, 

The  waters  here  are  still  as  death, 

Or  shimmer   with   a  zephyr's  breath, 

Then  shine  with  stars,  and  all  secure 

The  freighted  bongo  slowly  glides 

O'er  liquid    fire  of   phosphorus  tides. 

Beyond  the  bay  highlands  obscure 

A  peerless  moon;   the  low  bark  rides 

A  glossy  flood,  or  floats  at  ease; 

Brown   cavaliers  their  ladies  please 

With  light  guitar,  soft  roundelay. 

The  red  Sun  reigns  o'er  gorgeous  day, 

And  arbor,  hammock  and   cigar 

To  rest  invite;    romanceful  night 

Has  gentle  music,  love  and  star, 

And   every   form  of  gay  delight. 


BEDOUIN 

My  status  in  Earth   I  mention  with   candor — 
An  Ishmael,  an   utter  Outlander; 
No  clique  or  clan,  lord,  boss  or  commander. 
'Tis  thus  through  life  I  venture    and  wander; 
True  to  each  friend  and  ruthless  to  foes — 
(The    Indian's    plan    for    various    woes), 
My    ultimate    haven — eternal    repose. 


198  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

ONTK   MORE  TO  THE  CAMPS 

[March,   1864.] 

My  cheek  is  pale,  my  pulse   beats  fast; 

.My  limbs,  alas!  are  faint  and  sore; 
I  shiver  in  this  wintry  blast, 

I  tremble  at  its  roar, 
And  shall  my  dreary  lot  be  cast 

Amid  this  Northland  bleak  and  hoar? 

No  more  for  me  the  leaden  cloud 

Will  frown  along  the  sky; 
No  more  for  me  the  tempest  loud 

Will  howl  and  shriek  and  sigh; 
No  more  for  me  in  snowy  shroud 

The  King  of  Ice  will  whirl  on  high. 

No  more  for  me    the  cutting  cold 
Will  fiercely  range  the  frosty  air; 

No  more  for  me  o'er  heath  and  wold 
The  winds  will  chorus  of  despair; 

No  more  for  me  the  snows  will  fold 

Their  shining  robes  o'er  all  that's  fair. 

Adieu    this    drear    and    hostile    clime — 
It  has  no  beauties  for  my  soul ; 

Its.  very  streams,  with  notes  sublime, 
To  Southern  valleys  roll; 

Why  waste    I   here   my  fleeting  time 
In  this  drear  desert  of  my  soul? 

Huzza!    for   the   vine    hills   far   awayT 

For  the  boundless  fields  with  cotton  white! 

Huzza!    for  the   lands   of   genial   day, 
And  summer  lands  of  radiant  night! 

Huzza!     for   the    lands   of   fierce   affray, 
Of  sun  and  song  and  wine  and  fight! 


PKOYEHBIAL  PHILOSOPHY 

Who  hath  woe?     Who   hath  sorrow? 
Who  hath    redness  of  eyes? 

They  that  tarry  long  at  the  rhyme — 
That  perceive  when  the  rhythm 
Floweth  rightly  in  the  verse. 

A  man   born  to  rhyme 
Is   of   few   days 
And  full  of  trouble. 


I  H  Y  I.S    OK    HO  II  KM  I  A  199 

I'.ettrr    to   dwell   on    a    lions*-    top  — 

Yea.   in  a   bug-house— 

With    dinner   of   herbs. 

Than   with  a  poet    who  reads  yon   his  \vrses. 

A  man   who  saith: 

•Lo.    I   will   strike  the  sounding   lyre!" 
Shall  not  be  rich. 

Shun   the    rhymester. 

Have    none    of   his    ways. 

Cut   thy  hair,  nor  wear    it  long, 

As   the   vain   cow-puncher,  doth. 

Let  thine  eyes  have  no  far  away  gaze. 

Xo    pained    expression. 

Sit  not  for  a  long  time, 

Like  to  a  growth  on  a  log, 

In    prodigious  meditation. 

Pose  not,  when  the  picture  man  is  nigh. 

Have   not    ink   on  thy  pants, 

Nor  on  thy  finger  tips, 

Nor  sigh  wearily 

From   exhaustive  but  inconsequential   toil. 

Be  not  melancholy,  nor  greatly  cast  down, 

In  that  the  goddess    Fame 

Hath  passed  thee  by. 

Could  she  not  load  a  ferry-boat 

With  people  who  write  rhyme? 

Withhold  not  correction  from  a  child 
That    writeth    rhyme. 
Smite  him   with  a  club — 
Yea,    deliver    him    from    Sheol. 

Devise  not  ill  against  a  rhymester — 
He  hath  trouble  enough  as  it  is. 

He  who  maketh  ballads  to  the  moon, 

And    penneth  soft  sawder, 

Shall  not  bunco  Peter  at  the  gate. 

Beelzebub  will   gather  him, 

And  great  shall  be  the  taking  thereof. 

The    place  wherein  he  shall  dwell 

Will  not  be  nice. 

A  long  time  will  he  howl 

His   doleful    ditties   there. 

Give  ear,   my  son. 

Touch  not  the  sounding  lyre, 

Nor   make  a  monkey  of  thyself 

To    scribble    rhyme; 

Nor   tackle  booze,    and   think  thyself 


200  SONGS    OF    A    MAX    WHO    FAILED 

A  very  great  poet  indeed. 
Then  shalt  thou  lay   up  gold 
In  many  coffers. 

O,  tired  is  the  world. 
To  all  the  bards  it  crieth  out: 
"Hold!      Enough!" 

The  man  of  sense  doth  read  his  butcher  bill 
With  very  great  care,  when  he  hath  no  time 
To  even  know  you  have  written  rhyme. 

Is  it  not  enough 

That  no  man  whatsoever  wanteth  rhyme? 

Go  to!   put  thy  drivel    in  a  fire. 

Then  shall  earth  have  peace, 

And  the  people  rest, 

Nor  be  troubled  with  thee  any    more. 

Selah! 


CLOSING  FOK  BATTLE 

Oppressive  is  the  Sun's  hot  glare — 

No   cloud  obscures   the   fierce   orb's   brow; 

An    awful   tremor    fills   the   air 

For  all  our  lines  are  moving  now. 

The  drums  are  hushed — they  would  not  dare 

Invoke  a  storm  of  slaughter  yet; 

No  bugles  call,  no  trumpets  blare, 

But  starry  banners  toss  and  fret 

O'er    serried   arms;    a    nameless    dread 

Is    blown  on  winds  that  sigh  o'erhead. 

Discharged    by    swift,    impulsive    hands, 

A  signal  gun  sends  forth  its  peal. 

The  foe  confronts!     Look  where  he  stands 

Immovable,  with  walls  of  steel 

That  loom  before  the  startled  van, 

Or  soon  deploy,  or  slowly  wheel 

To  meet  the  strife's  unfolding  plan. 

Proud  war  steeds  plunge  and  cannons  roll 

In  silence  o'er  savannas  green. 

Full  soon  Titanic  bells  will  toll 

The  dreadful  music  of  the  scene. 

With  high  appeals  bold  leaders  urge 

Advancing  lines  to  dare  the  shock. 

These  move  a  monstrous  ocean  surge. 

Those?     Coronado's  ocean  rock! 

Lo!   myriads  press  on  battle's  verge; 

Soon  o'er  the  dead  will  Slaughter  stalk, 

And   balmy    zephyrs    breath    a    dirge 

For  those  whom  Glory's  paeans  mock. 


[DYLS    OF    BOH  KM  I  A  201 

PERCIVAL 

i'ale   IVn-ival,  how  sweet   his  mournful  strain. 
Tnti'ited   for   a  lawless  world  like  ours, 
He  could  not  sell  his  noble  thoughts  for  gain; 
He  could  not  all  conceal  his  pure  disdain. 
Where  Merit  pines  and  loud  Assumption  towers, 
He  sang  his  chaste,  his  gentle  songs  in  vain. 
Deep  learned  in  all  the  treasured  lore  profound 
The  slow-wheeled  ages  have  on  us  conferred, 
No  proper  goal  for  lofty  worth  he  found — 
His  plaintive  notes  the  world  impatient  heard. 
While  ruder  men  could  boast  of  hoarded  gold, 
Could  win  the  plaudits  of  gay  Folly's   throng 
Pale  Percival,  with  hunger's  pangs  untold, 
To   mar  his  notes,  gave    earth  his  song. 


HOME  AT  LAST 

His  title  no  one  will  dispute. 

One  spot  awaits  the  rover  brave; 

A  blessed  place  of  wide  repute — 

A  quiet,  peaceful   spot — 

A  well-selected  corner  lot; 

A  peaceful,  tranquil,  nameless  grave. 

When  he's  crossed  the  Big  Divide, 

And  slid  down  on  the  other  side, 

With  a   somewhat   painful    smile 

He'll  stop  and  stay  awhile, 

And  do  no  traveling  any   more. 

All  funerals  are  much  a  bore, 

But  one   we'll    all    anon    attend 

Is  waiting  at  the  other  end, 

And,  Rollingstone,  it   is  your  own. 

Be  ready  when  the  game  is  on. 


BOHEMIA 

Where  tired  Ambition  arms   for  foes; 

Where   chosen   spirits  find   repose 
From  battles  past  where  they  fought  well; 

Where   Fancy  reigns   and   genius  glows, 
And     earth's    unfettered    souls    rebel 

At   any  chains  the  fates  impose — 
(  Where  life  assumes  the  hue  of  rose), 
The    sons   of   gay    Bohemia    dwell. 


202  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

DEATH  SPEECH  OF  RONEKT  EMMET 

[This   passage   is   what   remains   of  "The   Trial   Of  Robert 
Emmet" — a  poem  I  lost  in  the  burning  of  San  Francisco.] 


LORI)    NORBTJRY 

The  mighty  throne  your  heated  tongue  maligns 
Will  ne'er  be  shaken  by  an  idle  boaster's  breath. 
Wild  visionaries  like  yourself,  who  rush  to  death, 
Will  never  see  fulfillment  of  their  base  designs. 
To  mad  extremes   your  zeal  proceeds;  an  evil  mind 
Betrays   itself,   with   purposes   too  well   defined. 
By  public  ranting  such  as  this  you  would  misguide 
Unwary  dupes,  and  fools  to  consequences  blind. 
'Tis  treason  that  you  here  proclaim  with  lawless  pride. 
Your    wand'ring    thoughts    from    sentimental    woes    with- 
draw, 
And  listen  to  the  sentence  of  the  Law. 

ROBE HT    KM  MET 

Sir,  your  deceitful  forms  a  prisoner  harass. 

You  have  demanded  why  the  sentence  should  not  pass. 

It  is  a  form.     My  sentence  was  decreed 

Before  yon  minion  rose  a  single  charge  to  read; 

Before  this  court  in  solemn  state  assembled  here, 

Before  your  lordship  came  in   majesty  severe. 

My  sentence  I  await,  but  to  the  forms  adhere. 

Let  olden  tricks  of  tyranny  be  cast  aside, 

For  I  demand  the  right  your  question  has  implied. 

Must  sanguinary  courts  abase  the  victim's  mind, 

Subdue  his  soul,  befoul  his  honored  name, 

As  preparation  for  his  death  of  studied  shame? 

Ere  his  dismembered  form  is  to  the  grave  consigned? 

Is  this  the  clemency  your  vaunted  courts  asume? 

More  dread  to  me  than  scaffold,  rope  or  felon's  doom 

Is  Slander's  tongue.     If  here  I  may  not  vindicate 

My  name  and  fame,  who  dares  that  fame  calumniate? 

For  those  I  love  no  legacy  may  be  entailed 

Save  that  the  tongues  of  hireling  slaves  have  here  asailed. 

With  dying  breath  my  spotless  name  I  will  defend — 

Ay,  against  the  world,  and  to  the  bitter  end. 

I  have  been  branded  as  a  venal  tool  of  France, 

An  emissary  of  a  hostile  foreign  land, 

Intent,  my  petty  private  fortunes  to  advance, 

By  landing  armed  foes  upon  my  native  strand. 

My  country's  peace,  her    independence,  I  have  sold 

As  Arnold  once  betrayed — for  paltry  sums  of  gold, 

For  feudal  rank,  despotic  Power's  potent  smile. 

O  calumnies   absurd!    most   infamous   and   vile! 


I  D  V  I.S    OF    BO  H  KM  I  A  203 

t   alone   my   fallen  country's   weal. 
The  freedom  of  an  ancient  race;  my  brain,  my  hand, 
My  h»-arr.  have  all  been   moved   by  patriotic   zeal 
For  independence  of  my  native  land. 
Xo   viler    motive  o'er    my    name  be   cast. 
Though  wild,  chimerical,  it  now  may  seem,  and  vast 
Tlu>  power  of  a  mighty  empire  we  oppose, 
Force  yet  remains — yea,  concord — to  o'erwhelm  our  foes — 
To  rend  from  place  the  regal  emblems  we  despise, 
And   proudly   consummate  this  noblest   enterprise. 

Lest   none  of  you  my  memory  assail,  or    say: 
"He  was  a  loathsome  creature,  born  of  troubled  times. 
His  nation's  liberties  he  would  have  sold  for  pay. 
This  traitor  met    his  fate  for  many  grievous  crimes. 
He  had  a  lust  for  gold,  a  vanity  for  sway. 
For  monster  such  as  he  we  have  no  fitting  name. 
He  strove  to    ply  a  trade  in  our  fraternal  blood; 
Had  barter  with  our  foes  across  an  ocean's  flood, 
In   hope  to  profit  from  his   native   country's   shame." 
O  calumnies  of  Hate!     Shall  T,  my  lord,  who  brave 
Your  jealous  despot  now,  and  for  my  native  race, 
In  Freedom's  holy  cause,  approach  a  dreary  grave — 
Shall  I  in  silence  brook  such  idle  slander  base? 
Away!   I  hurl  denial   in  your  lordship's  face. 
Nor  seek  to  burden  me  with  such  atrocious  guilt 
As  being  cause  of  all  the  blood  now  being  spilt 
In  just  resistance  to  a  ruthless  foreign  king. 
Charge  me  with  this,  when  even  now  is  being  built 
The  scaffold  rud<>  whereon  my  murdered  form  will  swing? 

#*#:;=: 

Iii  sacrificial  haste  your  noble  lordship  seems. 

The  blood  your  throne  must  have  still  pours  its  ruddy 

streams. 

Impetuous  and  warm  in  ample  veins  it  flows. 
Artificial    terrors   your    legal    pomps   impose 
Congeal  not  its  flood.     O  still  have  delay. 
My  flame  of  life  is  quenched,  my  mortal  toils  are  done. 
To  the  grave's  awful  stillness  I  now  take  my  way. 
Earth  opens  to  receive  her   unfortunate  son. 
Silence  of  the  world  is  the  boon  that  I  implore. 
Let  me  slumber  obscure  on  this  desolate  shore. 
Who  is  there  who  will  dare  my  course  to  vindicate? 

0  traduce  not  my  name  in  ignorance  and  hate. 
Till  my  country  is  free,  let  me  slumber  unknown, 
Xo  memorial  rise,  no  funeral  stone; 

Xo   trophy  be   reared   o'er   my   patriot   grave 
While  this  island  is  trod  by  a  tyrant  or  slave. 

1  shall  rest    me  in  peace  till  the  triumph  is  won. 
Xor  perish  in   vain.     Xoble  lord,   I   have  done. 


204  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

WHEKK    FOiriTXE    SKULKS 

[1908.] 

The  Carib  seas  and  austral  isles 
Are  scenes  no  more  where  Fortune  smiles. 
Pactolian    streams   pour    sands   of   gold 
From    Mexico's    hot,    riven    slopes, 
Where  frenzied  men,  with  glowing  hopes, 
Tear  out  each  vein,  each  crevice  old, 
In   eager  quest  of  wizard  gold — 
Rude,  lawless  men  of  moody  brows, 
Whose  heaven   is   in   fierce  carouse 
Where  music  peals  and  Vice  arrays — 
Dark,  silent  men  with  fearless  ways. 
Each  hides  a  grief  with  sadness  fraught — 
A  shame,  an  ill,  of  former  lot — 
Or   olden   things  are  all   forgot 
In  fury  for  the  Midas  prize 
That  far  within  each  mountain  lies. 
They  ravish  spoil  from    Nature's  hold, 
And  revel,  brawl  and  lavish  gold. 


THE   OZAKK   HILLS 

The  Ozark  Hills,  in  vernal  green, 
Have  bowers  cool  for  sweetest  rest, 
Whose  boughs  no  sun  rays  pierce  between 
From  farthest  east  to  utmost  west. 
O  roam  writhin — the  whole  fair  scene 
For  any  careless  heart  is  blest. 


A    YOUTHFUL  WOE 

The    dream    is    gone — an    humble    cot 
On   some    green   hillside's   grassy   slope, 
With  palms  around   the  sacred   spot, 
And    roses    in   the   little   plot, 
And  peace  and  happiness  and  hope 
Beneath  the  roof  where  she  should  reign. 
O  heart,  thou  shalt  atone  for  this! 
O  happy  dream,  come  not  again 
With  promises   of  perfect  bliss 
And  burdenings  of  utter  pain. 


[DYLS    OF    BOH  KM  I  A  205 

I'YKUIirs  TIIK   KIN(i 

PYRRHtJS 

It'   .mxls   are   kind — with   this    great    conquest    made — 

Why   shall   our   march   of   victory  be  stayed? 

Xot   till  proud  Carthage  shall  my  sceptre  own, 

And   I  am  master   of  the  Lybian  throne. 

When   At'ric's  shore  beneath  my  power  quails. 

Our  fleets  of  war  shall   homeward  get   their  sails. 

Yi-a.   homeward  shall  a  dauntless   victor  come, 

With    hum-Is    crowned,    rich    with    imperial    spoil, 

To  plunge  great  Macedonia  in  turmoil, 

For  Greece   must    yield   to   him   who  conquers   Rome. 

Then?     Then?     Why,  then  we'll  fling  these  arms  away, 

And   end    in    countless   joys  this   mortal   day. 

CINEAS 

O,  monarch,  pause!     Draw  not  again  the  sword 
To  stake  a  mighty  throne  in  changeful  war. 
Lo!     every  bliss  these  happy  realms  afford, 
And  splendor  shines  from  your  triumphal   car. 
Rich    palaces    a    royal    soldier    wait, 
With  trophies  hung,  and  filled  with  lemans  fair. 
Tempt   not    the   vengeance    of   insulted   Fate; 
Enjoy,  while  yet  for  you  life's  pleasures  are. 
Why  scourge  a   frighted  world,   in  mad   array, 
With    ruin,  death,  calamity  and  woe — 
To  gain,  when  useless  tumults  pass  away, 
When  hecatombs  are  Slaughter's  prey, 
What   Heaven    confers    without    a   blow? 
Why  wade  through  seas  of  human  blood  to  gain 
What  now   is  yours,   unmixed  with   mortal  pain? 
O  Pyrrhus  pause!     Who  spurns  the  cup  of  joy, 
Revengeful   gods   in  burning  wrath    destroy. 

I'YKimrs 

Portentous  words!     They  cause  me  mighty  pain. 
Who  suffers  with  Ambition's  deadly  curse, 
Must  keep   his  path,  come  loss  or  gain, 
Come  joy  or  woe,  or  mortal  sorrows  worse, 
Great    heroes    rise    at    Destiny's    command; 
They  fright  the  world,  they  scourge  and  mar, 
Like    puppets  moved  by  Fate's  malignant  hand. 
With  doom  decreed,  they  run  their  course 
Through    conflagration,   strife  and   force. 
Let  trumpets  peal!     Fling  banners  to  the  gale! 
This  day  'gainst  haughty  Rome  my  fleet  shall  sail; 
Lucanian  hills  shall  thrill  with  shocks  of  war, 
Sacked  cities  burn,  their  walls  with  carnage  stream; 
O  fateful  shall  the  sword  of  Pyrrhus  gleam 
Where  shrieks  and  wails  and  ghastly  slaughters  are. 
The  trumpets  peal!     Proud  banners  be  unfurled! 
Pyrrhus  is  in  arms  to  desolate  the  world. 


206  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

HIS  ONLY  WEALTH 

[See  note   in  Prose  Addenda.] 

A   voice   came   out     a   rich    man's    grave: 
"The  wealth  I  won  at   heavy  cost, 
I  left  behind— I  count  it  lost. 
The  coin  I  spent  for  good   or  bad — 
For  pleasure, ^sport — I   only  had. 
In  getting  gold   I   was  a  slave, 
But  all   I   have  in  this    lone  grave — 
My    only   wealth — is    what    I    gave." 


KEXESAW 

Where  Kenesaw  its  lofty  crest 

Reared  threatn'ing  'neath  a  torrid   sky, 

Long  had  our  legions  hotly  pressed 

To   fiercely    strive   and    proudly   die. 

From  peak  to  peak  and   height  to  height 

The  gleam  of  bayonets  met  the  sight; 

On   barren   ridge    and   hills  of   stone 

The  brazen-throated  cannons  shone, 

And  tents  were  white  in  vales  between, 

Half  hid  by  summer's  robes  of  green, 

And    silent   squares    of    daring   men 

Were  massed  within  each  leafy  glen, 

And  parapets  and  walls  of  clay 

Far  o'er  the  mountain  stretched  their  way; 

And  fortress  dark,   on  every  side, 

To  fortress  dark  in   rage  replied; 

And  musketry  in  volleys  broke 

From  leaguered  lines  through  woods  of  oak, 

And  where  the  peaks  were  lost  in  blue, 

Rebellion's   haughty   standards   flew. 

The  sun  went  down  in  blazing  ire, 
His  glory  mingled  with  our  fire; 
His  gorgeous  streams  of  golden  light 
Poured  flood-like  through  the  roaring  fight, 
And   all   the   stars   our  banners   bore 
Gleamed  like  Montana's  yellow  ore. 
No  moon  was  forth  when  night  was  come, 
Xo  longer  rolled  the  warning  drum; 
No  rifle   cracked  from  vale  or  hill, 
The  rumbling  guns  grew  strangely  still, 
And  weary  with  the  day  gone  by, 
Each  soldier  placed  his  weapons  nigh 
And  laid  him  down  to  dream  or  die. 


IDYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  207 

Lair  \vjis  the  hour  swift  riders  bore 

Si  range  tidings  through  those  forests  hoar. 

With    (autionings   of  watchful   foes 

Our  chieftains   roused   us  from  repose. 

No   trump   was   blown,  no  signal   made, 

But  like  a  host  become  afraid, 

For  leagues  and  leagues  the  still  lines  poured 

Back  from  their  works,  as  surges  creep 

Back  to  the  fountains  of  the  deep 

When  baffled   by  the  firm   sea-board; 

And  then,  as  rent,  conflicting  tides, 

Sore  fretted  by  the  wailing  blast, 

Resolve  into  a  current  vast 

That  cannot  scale  the  cliff's  tall  sides, 

But  past    its   base   resistless   glides. 

So  formed  we  there  and  westward  swept 

While   still  the  foe   unthinking  slept. 

Long  was  the  night,  and  silence  dread — 
So   strangely  deep   it   seemed   the  dead 
flight   stir  beneath  our  martial  tread — 
Far  as   Cimmerian   darkness  spread, 
Intensely  reigned;  some  muttered  word 
Anon  amid  the  gloom  was  heard, 
Some  charger's  neigh,  some  clank   of  steel, 
The  noise  of  some  half  muffled  wheel, 
Some  wild  bird's  scream,  as  if  in  fright — 
And  these  alone  disturbed  the  night. 

With    balmy    winds    and    azure    skies 
Morn   came  in  Triumph's  splendid  guise. 
Upon  the  foe's  far  flank  we  bore 
In   War's  proud   pomp,  with  music's  roar, 
And  columns  massed,  and  seas  of  steel, 
And  musketry's    terrific  peal, 
And  crash   of   shell,   and    cannon    glare, 
And  thund'ring  cheers  that  rolled   away 
O'er   mountain    slope   or   valley   dell, 
As  1  hough   the  hosts  of  Caesar's  day, 
Or  clans  that  fought  when  Jlion  fell, 
In  fury  marshalled  for  affray. 

The  startled  foe,  amazed,  undone, 
Recoiled  before  that  storm  of  might, 
And  ere  the  stars  of  early  night 
Our  banners  waved  from   hill  and   height — 
Embattled  Kenesaw  was  won. 


RIVAL  CIIIKFS 

Two  mighty  men  were  born,  high  chiefs  of  war  to  be — 
Napoleon  on  the  shore,  Lord  Nelson  on  the  sea. 


208  SONGS    OF    A    MAX    WHO    FAILED 

A  CALIFORNIA   SCENE 

In  rapture — nay,  in  adoration  stand. 
See    where    the    sunset    tinges    ocean's    tide. 
Palms,  roses,  vineyards,  fill  the  valley  wide; 
Green  bowers  cool  and  orange  groves  expand. 
All  famous  fruits  in  gay  profusion  shine, 
All  precious   wines   flow  from   the  luscious   vine; 
Earth's  bounties  pour  as  by  a  god's  command. 
This  is  the  gem  of  all  the  southern  land, 
With  sylvan  scenes;    a  pure,  celestial  clime — 
Vales  of  delight  by    sea-born  zephyrs  fanned. 
All  through  the  yea*  'tis  one  sweet  summer  time. 
With  ev'ry  weal  that  mortal  hearts  demand, 
An  Eden  rolls  'tween  hills  and  ocean  grand. 


REFRAIN  IN  DIXIE 

The  feet  that  tread   o'er  many   lands 
Grow   too   broad    for    leathers   fine; 
Campaigning   scatters   life's   few  sands, 
And   private   soldiers   can't   resign. 


COMI5AT  L'  OUTRANGE 

No  silver  moon   or  tranquil  star 

Sheds  o'er  my  path  one   lonely   ray, 
But    ebon    shades    my    progress    bar, 

Weird  omens  haunt  my  dismal  way. 
Shall  utter  darkness  ever  last? 

March    onward!    be    my   dauntless    cry. 
'I've  set  my  life  upon  a    cast — 

I'll  stand  the  hazard  of  the  die.' 


1 1  ALCYONE 

More  graces  crown  you  in  Love's  scene 
Than  Egypt's  ,  proud  and   fated  queen 
Imperious  wore,   in  Fortune's   smile, 
When,    drifting   o'er    the    placid    Nile, 
The  love  songs  of  her  nymphs  subdued 
The  very  winds  her  galleys  wooed. 


IDYLS    OF    BOH  KM  I  A  209 

I()\VA    AlTl'MN 

Thi-  red  sun  rises  like  a  ball  of  fire, 

All  shorn  of  lustrous  beams;  its  rosy  hue 

Hums  through  the  mists  of  morn,  that  soon  expire, 

And  robs  the   warm,  brown  hills  of  pearly  dew; 

Then  o'er  the  landscape  rolls  a  smoky  haze — 

The   Tyrian   purple   of  October  days. 

The  streams,  at   noon,   in  lazy  splendor   flow; 

At  eve  the  moon  sails  like  a  golden  shield, 

Or  silver   cestus,   o'er  blue  heaven's  field. 

No  sign  forewarns  of  winter's  chill  advance, 

Xo  breezes  murmur,  gales  or  zephyrs  blow, 

But  earth   is  happy  in  a  joyous  trance, 

As  raptured  o'er  a  lavish  season's  yield 

Of  flowers,  fruits,  rich  treasures  of  the  field. 

i 

Torn,  mutilated  cornstalks,  brave  no  more, 
Seem  like  old  fighters  ranged  o'er  vale  or  hill 
To  yield  up  arms — high  clemency  implore, 
Since  age  hath  rived  them  of  their  warlike  skill, 
And  leaves  them  helpless  in  a  foeman's  land, 
To  meekly  wait  a  victor's  cold  command. 
Where  is  the  glory  of  their  summer  days, 
When  haughtily  they  bore  the  steadfast  rays 
Of  northern  sun,    or  heat  of  hostile  skies, 
And  wore  their  tassel  plumes  in  martial  guise, 
And  warred  with  gales,  and  waved  each  saber  blade 
Like  princely  knights  of  dangers   unafraid. 
So  wanes  a  bold,  impetuous  man  away, 
As  age  steals  o'er  him — chills  his  wonted  fire. 
With  trembling  hand  he  moves  his  locks  of  grey, 
Nor  strife,  nor  triumph  now   is  his  desire. 
His  wrath  is  vain.     Repose — deep  silence  please. 
He  totters  to  his  couch  to  dose  at  ease. 
The  tall  oak's  boughs  will  soon  be  bare, 
For,  leaf  by  leaf,  its  flamy  splendors  fall. 
The  rooks  across  the  peaceful  valley  call, 
The  dry  leaves   rustle  at  each  breath   of  air, 
A    myriad  lovely  hues  the  groves  adorn, 
Ere  autumn  yet  assumes  a  mien  forlorn. 


UYRON.  liTRXS  AND  FOE 

Strong  drink,  O  bards,  you  should  not  much  desire: 

It   sets    your   crazy   brains   on   fire, 

And  snaps  the  chords  of  proud  Apollo's  lyre. 

14 


210  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

A  CHAT  WITH  PHIDIAS   ' 

"Gold  will  wear  away;  silver  will  tarnish,  wood  will  decay, 
the  granite  stone  itself  will  disintegrate,  but  jewels  will 
continue  unchanged  for  thousands  of  years." 

"What  are  you  building  here,   my  lord, 

With   such  a   massive  wall?" 
"I'm  building  here,  my    friend, 
A  lot  of  rock  to  fall. 

Whate'er  we  plan  with  busy  brain 

To  high  o'ertop  each  hill  and  plain — 

Castle,  palace,  prison,  fane — 

In  time  will  tumble  down  again. 

Soon  as  we  get  the  final  slab  to  stay, 

And    fling   our    hated   tools    away, 

The  pile  we've  reared  commences  to  decay. 

This  thought,  just  now,  began  to  give  me  pain." 


RETROSPECTION 

'Tis  sad  to  wake  from  some  delicious  trance, 

And  find  its  airy    splendors  fled; 
'Tis  sad  to  meet  some  dear,  familiar  glance, 

And  find  its  soul  of  love  is  dead; 
'Tis  sad  to  see  a  noble  bark 

Go  down  amid  the  sea; 
'Tis  sad  to  sit  and  silent  mark 

A  well   loved    spirit  flee; 
'Tis  sad  to  see  a  gallant  band 

Close  round  a  leader  tried, 
And  see  the  foe,  with  potent  hand, 

O'erwhelm   them   in   their   pride; 
'Tis  sad  to  see  a  dauntless  form 

Guide  conquest  on  its    way, 
And  pass  unscathed  amid  the  storm, 

To  fall  at  close  of  day; 
'Tis  sad  in  indigence  to  feel 

The  bitter   curse   of   Fortune's   frown, 
Nor   hope  to  make    Derision   kneel 

At  blaze  of  genius  and  renown; 
'Tis  sad  to  see  the  crumbling  wall 

Where  childhood's  home  hath  been; 
'Tis  sad  to  see  a  dear  one  fall, 

And  feel  your  own  the  sin. 


THE  DIFFERENCE 

I've  learned  a  bit  of  wisdom  in  life's  ungentle  school — 
Success  makes  a  hero  and  failure  makes  a  fool. 

t 


IDYLS    OF    BOH  KM  I  A  211 

LUCILE 

O   paragon   of   flesh  and  blood, 
With  hair  as  black  as  deepest  night, 
And   eyes   that  seem   a  dreamy  flood 
Of  passion  in  resistless  might. 
Joy   not   in  Beauty's  transient  reign. 
Tis  but    a  day.     Eve  comes  again. 
Thy  raven  hair  as  dark  as  night, 
Will  be  anon  as  lilies  white. 
The  glow  that  tints  thy  dainty  cheek, 
With  waning  years  will  take  to  flight. 
Ah!   cruel  Time,  his  fingers  bleak 
Full    swiftly    mar   each   chief   delight. 
Fair  Pleasure's  sweets  are  swiftly  sped; 
Our  joyous  days,  how  soon  they  glide; 
Our  fondest  hopes — they  soon  are  dead, 
But    Sorrow  seeks  her  victim's  side, 
And  long — ah!   long  doth  there  abide. 


SOLDIER  OF  FOIHTXE 

Soldier  of  fortune,  trust  well  to  thy  blade; 
In  gloomiest  ordeals  be  not  afraid. 
Skies  that  are  sombre  grow  brighter  anon, 
Hosts  are   unconquered  till  valor   is  gone. 
Follow  thy  banner,  as  Glory  leads  on. 
Fearless  of  danger,  in  sunlight  or  shade, 
Soldier  of  fortune,  trust  well  to  thy  blade. 


A    SKXTIMKXTAL   DKKAM 

While  ignorance  and  greed  and  superstitions  thrive, 

This  earth  will   reek  with  bloody  wars. 

In  vain  the  dream  of  endless  peace. 

Force   moves  the  planets   on  their  courses  true, 

And   Force   must   rule  a  lawless  world. 

Our  fellow  man,  despite  a  slight  vaneer, 

Is  but  a  brute  and  savage  yet. 


TIIK   FAU  SOITII 

The  Night  hath  veiled  her  starry  charms, 
The  Sun-god  waves  resplendent  arms; 
Warm,  blushing  Day,  queen  of  the  zone, 
Ascends  once  more  her  blazing  throne. 


212  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

CARINUS 

The  lord  of  Rome,  in  cruel  mirth, 
Despoiled  a  faithful  soldier's  hearth. 
As  if  indifferent  of  the  crime, 
The  soldier  bided  well  his  time. 
At  last  it  came,  the  annals  tell. 
In  blood  the  brutal  despot  fell. 
I'll  twine  at  last  a  laurel  crown 
For  him  who   smote  Carinus  down. 


A  CEREAL  STORY 

[1918] 

I  keep  the   human   race  alive, 
But,  up  to  date,  no  poet  sings  of  me. 
Where   countless   populations   thrive 
Not  a  living  man  would  be, 
Except   for   me. 

There's  little  use  my  virtues  to  repeat. 
Man's  a  crazy  cad — dupe  or  cheat — 
Or  both,  to  make  expenses  meet. 
What's  my  name?  you  ask.    My  name 'is  Wheat; 
High  toned,  high  in  price,  and  hard  to  beat—- 
The  Anglo-Saxon's    chosen   grain; 
My  home's  in  Freedom's  proud  domain. 


AMERICAN  SOLDIERS  IX  FRANCE 

The  war  is  over,  battle  banners  furled; 
The  Hun  is  licked;   we  had  no  fears, 
But  greet  you,  boys,  as  knightly  peers 
Of  any  fighters  in  the  world. 


THE  DEMON  "IF" 

[See   Note  in   Prose  Addenda.] 

Of  all  the  fiends  impatient  people  curse — 

Hobgoblins,  witches,  ghouls  and  imps  perverse — 

Whose  evil  deeds  we  see  rehearsed 

In  melancholy  tomes  that  nearly  burst 

With   miseries,   the  demon   "If"   is   worst. 


I  PVI.S    OF    BOIIKMIA  213 


PKACK  APOSTLKS 

Here,   .lawn's  a    gun. 

(Jit    the   clawg  and    kill   the   song  birds. 

We  didn't   raise  our  boy  to  be  a   soldier. 


COLUMBIA'S  PTAII 

"In    Go(l)d   We   Trust." 

Egypt   had    its   gods — they   vanished   one   by   one. 
Phoenicia's  chosen  god — it  was  the  mighty  Sun. 
Assyria  had  its  gods  and  so  had  Babylon. 
From  Greek  and  Trojan  down  to  Visi-Goth  and  Hun, 
They  all  had  gods  to  heap  their  crazy  honors  on. 
Columbia  has  a:  god  that  beats  them— every  one! 
A  god  for  business,  pleasure,  politics  and  fun, 
That  closer  than   a  brother  sticks — 
The  god  of  Gold,  my  son. 


CHARGING  A  KIFLE  PIT 

Above  our  heads,  across  the  vale, 
Our  battery,  with  screaming  hail, 
Dashed  the  opposing  works  away 
As  tempests  toss  the  ocean  spray, 
And  yet  our  leader's  ringing  call 
Was  heard  distinct  above  it  all. 

'Mid  sharp  commands  and  hot  replies 
I  faintly  heard  a  score  of  cries, 
And    then,    in   wild    disorder    still, 
Our  curving  lines  surged   up  the  hill, 
A  gleaming  mass  of  fearless  men. 
The  moments  sped  like  dizzy  dreams. 
Amid    a    tumult    of    alarms, 
The  flash  of  steel,  the  roar  of  arms, 
Explosions,  curses,  groans  and   screams, 
The  rush  of  crowds,,  the  fall  of  men 
That  heedlessly  were  trampled  then — 
The  sight  of  blood,  the  glare  of  fire- 
All,    mingled    in    confusion    dire, 
And    scarcely   knowing   which    had    lost, 
In    wrath   the  battlements  we  crossed. 


JAYTOWX  CHAMPION 

Him?    Why  that's  the  feller  that  won  the  cup. 
11'-  swallers  his  giggle  and  coughs   it  up. 


214  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

A  ROBBER.  KNIGHT 

Forage  liberally  on  the  country. 

— William    Tecumseh   Sherman 

A  wise  bird  is  the  busy  Crow; 

A  military  bird,  I'd  have  you  know. 

He  hieth   forth  at  early   morn; 

He  sees   the   stupid   farmer  go, 

Then  fills  himself 'with  captured  corn. 

A  shotgun  cracks,  but  Crow  is  gone. 

Much  dainty  food  he  feasted  on. 

For  merry  conversation  bent, 

Unto  his  fellows  does  he  tell 

How  wide  the  deadly  missiles  went, 

How  far   apart   they   vainly   fell. 

No  angry  farmer  shooteth  well. 

With  stolen  corn  Crow  filled  his  sack. 

Caw!     Caw!    Caw!    he  loudly  carols  back. 

Chattering  fast  in  accents  wise 

Of  the  conservation  of  supplies, 

And  driving  hoosiers  nigh  insane, 

By   commandeering   their   grain, 

Crow   is  off  to  fleece  an  oaten  stack. 

Let  him  get  who  hath  the  power. 

Crow  philosophy  is  to  devour 

All  in  sight,  when  farmer  turns  his  back. 

The  grasshopper  laughed;  he  said:     "Well,  well! 

It  really  seems  that  war  is  hell, 

But  world-wide  peace  will  never  do — 

What  Malthus  wrote  is  coming  true. 

We'll  have  new  ways  to  run  a  farm, 

And  make  hillbillies  all  disarm. 

Crows  must  live,  grasshoppers  prey; 

The  time  has  come  for  our  New  Day. 

That  Congress  chap   must  turn  his  coat 

Or  surely  lose  the  grasshopper  vote." 


THE  WILD  SUNFLOWER 

O'er  all  the  boundless  prairie  zones, 

It  sways  and  lifts  its  golden  crown; 

Salutes   the   Sun,   his   power  owns, 

Till  in  his  pomp  the  Sun  goes  down. 

Rude  in  its  beauty,  this  wild  flower 

Charms  the  plainsman's  idle  hour; 

Through  sterile  soil  it  forces  way, 

The  sunrays  linger  on  its  crest, 

It  proudly  glows  in  scorching  day— 

'Tis   emblem  of  the  boundless   West. 

Afar  each  nameless  flower  nods — 

Yellow    lilies,    purple    thistles,    goldenrods, 

Bestrew  the  gardens  of  the  gods. 


DYI.S    OF    BOHEMIA  215 


A   PIRATK  S()N<; 

Y<>  ho!   ahoy!   heave  ho!   for  Dead   Man's  Isle. 
Where  are  the  men  we  gazed  upon? 
Sheepish  men  with   stupid   smile, 
That    lingered   around   our   way  a  \vhile? 
Where  have  they  gone  for  many  a  mile? 

'They  drained   to  dregs  a   bitter   cup; 
They    wilted    away — they    shrivelled    up. 
To  Dead  Man's  Isle  those  men    have  gone." 

Alas  for  Armageddon's  day! 

Disaster   sweeps   upon   its   way. 

Those  men  are  gone?     What  shall  we  do? 

Who  now  will  pull  the  country  through? 

'  Tis  prophecy  of  high  command 
That  preachers  and  petticoats  rule  the  land; 
Pullets  and   preachers, 
And  feminine  teachers, 
And  heavenly  creatures 
Of  Gideon's  band. 
With  inspirations  true — 
O    hoop-de-dooclen-doo! 
They  will  rule  the  land — 
They  will  pull   the  country  through." 

Skulls  and  bones  lie  in  a  pile — 

Let's  heave  away  for  Dead  Man's  Isle. 


DKADLY  TOLTKC  DOPE 

[See   note    in    Prose  Addenda.] 

'What  have  you  there,  my  comrade  true?' 
'The  finest  thing  you  ever  knew. 

See  how  it  shines  like  morning  dew. 

'Twill   make  you  happy — crazy,  too. 

Have  a  taste  of  Marihuana  Brew." 


TIIK  MKXITAX   PKOX 

Hot   blooded,   deadly    in   his   ire, 
Hat*'   sets   his   very   veins  on   fire. 
Silent    in   his   tranquil    mood; 
Kindly,    generous    and    good; 
Sympathetic,  friendly  without  fear; 
Rude,    but    courteous   as    a    cavalier. 


216  SON  OS    OF    A    MAX    WHO    FAILED 

ASSAULT  IX  FORCE 

We  fought  that  not  a  slave  should  be 
From  Polar  snows  to  tropic  sea. 

With  all  the  pageantry  and  pride, 
That    ever    Terror's    front    defied 
Since    Satan   dared   a  God   to   scorn, 
We  marched  up  through  the  shining  corn. 

Led  on  by  chiefs  of  iron  mould, 
One  impulse  wild  our  hearts  controlled — 
One  impulse  wild,   in  wrath  condign 
To  break  the  foe's  unconquered   line. 

No  thoughts  of  home  deterred  us  then, 
No  thoughts  of  love  from   maids   or  men, 
No  fear  of  pain,  no  sombre  dread 
Lest  Night  its  mantle  dusk  should  spread 
O'er  vanquished  lines  and  slaughters  red; 
But,  like  a  scourge  for  vengeance  sent, 
Lost  in  our  pomp  and  fierce  intent, 
And  proud  to  be  the  hope  forlorn. 
We  marched  up  through  the  shining  corn. 

There  was  a  flash — a  blinding  light 
Streamed  down  the  crest  from  left  to  right 
Like  lightnings  flung  from  folds  of  night, 
And    swift  a   crash   of  dread    import 
Rolled  up  from  bastion,  trench  and  fort; 
The   cannons   dark   vehement   spoke, 
Destruction  from  its  sleep  awoke, 
And    canopied    amid    the    smoke, 
Its  ghastly  wings  exulting  spread. 
Sulphurous    clouds    in    volumes   dense 
Swayed  slowly  o'er  the  strife  intense, 
And  leaden  hail  with  vengeful  speed 
Smote  down  the  ranks  that  dared  to  lead. 
And  while  we  faced  the  storm  of  death, 
And  struggled  on  with  bated  breath, 
Resolved  to  win,  and  yet  dismayed; 
Confused,   appalled,  yet  scarcely  stayed, 
The   cruel    cheers    of    taunting    foes 
From  out  their  shielding  works  arose. 
I   could   not   tell   for   dust  and   smoke 
Just  where   our  column   soonest  broke, 
But  backward  hurled  in  rout  complete, 
In  shameful  plight  it  wildly  fled, 
And  flags  ne'er   borne  in  base  retreat 
Were    furled    above    our    gallant    dead. 
There  wras  no  stop,  there  was  no  stay; 
In  massacre  had  closed  the  fray, 


1  1)  VI.S    OF    BO  II  KM  I  A  217 

And   frantic    haste   and    mad    dismay 
Impelled    us   down    the   trampled   slope 
Where  late  we  charged  with  dauntless  hope, 
As   though  a   world    would   fail   to  cope 
With   us  in  all  our  stern  array. 

A  tiny  stream  stole  down  the  vale 

Where  first  our  storming  column  massed, 

("pon    whose    breast    the    lilies    pale 

Were  late  in  beauty  purely  glassed, 

Hut    we    had    soiled    it    as    we    passed — 

Had  marred  its  outlines  with  our  tread — 

And  here  and   there  a  tint  of  red 

Came  floating  down  its  troubled  tide, 

Presaging  that  some  wretch  had  died 

By  shrieking  missile  surely  sped. 

Along   its   margin  halted   all. 

Some  stopped  to  breathe,  and  some  to  call 

For  friends  they  feared  to  meet  no  more; 

And  some  because  of  anguish  sore 

From  wounds  they  scarcely  knew  they  bore; 

And   all,   because  the   sheltered   spot 

Secured   them   from   the  plunging   shot. 

Anon  the  thunders  died  away, 

The  smoke  dissolved  in  genial  day; 

The  victors'  hoarse,  incessant  cheers 

In  painful  clamor  reached  our  ears; 

And  then  the  air  became  so  still 

You   might    have  heard   that  tiny   rill 

Go  stealing  o'er   its  sandy  bed, 

Had   not  the  dying  moaned  instead. 


WIMTTKN  KOK  "J 

[For   some   forgotten   reason,    I    excluded   these   lines   from 
the  poem.  | 

She   summoned   then   Bethulia's   mighty   ones, 
.Men  of  high  fame,  the  nation's  chosen  sons. 
That  they  should  heed  the  soldiers'  clamors  loud 
She  spake  in  tone  of  lofty  censure  proud: 
"Xot   thus,"  she  said,  "our  fathers  did  of  old. 
They  faced  invasion  with  a  spirit  bold; 
Before  their  cities  fell  to  bloody  spoil. 
They   died   in  combat  on  their  native   soil. 
Therefore,  my  lords,  a  stern  example  show; 
I>isdain    a    thought   of    Zion's    overthrow; 
My    fierce    decision   of   the    sword   abide. 
Hold  fast   the  walls!      Assyria  be   defied! 
For   if  the  city  bows  to  Judah's  foe, 
The  bulwarks  of.  the  land  are  swept   aside." 


218  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 


THE  WAY  IT  IS 

My  rover  bold,  where'er  you  go, 
You'll  meet  a  friend  or  face  a  foe. 


A  ROVER'S  FANCY 

0  dark  and  austere  and  savagely  drear, 

The  wide  waters  rolled  to  an  ultimate  sea, 
And  the  winds  that  arose  from  their  sullen  repose, 
Had  a  myriad  voices  for  me. 

When  zephyrs  that  float  from  the  rich   glowing  West, 
Oft  thrill  us  with  murmurs  and  sighs, 

And  the  gales  that  disturb  the  face  of  the  deep 
Sound    the    paeans   of    turbulent   skies, 

Who  doubts  that  the  mind,  in  sadder  refrains, 
Interprets   the   burden   so  solemnly  sung, 

And  gathers  from  Nature's  gloomier  strains 
A  weightier  wisdom  than  eloquent  tongue 

E're  thundered  from  altar  or  forum  profound 
To  listening  masses  low  bending  in  awe — 

A  weightier  wisdom,  that  vaults  o'er  the  bound 
Encircling  Creation's  inscrutable   Law. 

1  believe  these  sounds,  though  mystic  and  crude, 
Are  echoes  that  from  Omnipotence  fall, 

And  the  mind  when  in  a  sensitive  mood 
Can  ponder  and  fathom  them  all. 

As  I  stood  on  the  steep  that  looked  o'er  the  sea, 
And  the  winds  came  forth  tox trouble  the  night, 

A  magical  lore  seemed  given  to  me 

To  know  their   weird   symphonies  right. 


SOCORRO 

A  very  bad  egg 
O'erfilled   his   beer   keg, 

And  still  kept  crying  for  more,  O; 
So  they  said  he  must  go 
To  the  city  below 

Geographers   call    Socorro. 
He   disdained   to  ride  on  a   burro, 
And  had   not  a  lone  cent  of  oro. 
So  he  hit  a  box  car, 
And    hopped    in,    by    gar! 

And  straight  on  he  rode  to  Socorrjo. 


i  n  v  i.s  or  BO  HEM  i  A  /      219 

SOITIIFRX   CALIFORNIA 

Where,  on  sunset  shores,  the  Spanish  knights 

A   fortress  reared,  or  where  a   mission   came, 

There  will  you  find  a  clime  that  man  delights — 

As  fair  as  Cashmere  Vale  of  classic  fame. 

Castilian  sons  had  scorn  of  wintry  zones 

Where  surges  dash   on   icy   capes  and  isles, 

And  Ocean's  wave  with  smothered  sorrow  moans. 

Their  sails  were  flown  where  am'rous  Nature  smiles, 

And   heaven's   blue    is   bright    with   torrid   star; 

Where  sensuous  airs  breathe  low  with  tender  wiles — 

Where  precious  ores,  rich  wines  and  roses  are. 

Zones  of  Hesperus!     Balmy  lotus  vales, 

With    care    swept    o'er    by    velvet    ocean    gales; 

Voluptuous    and    amaranthine    shores 

Where   never    echo    of   a    tempest    roars. 

Imperial  home!      Here  came   they  last, 

Yet  lightly  viewed  a  prize  that  careless  lay. 

Those  lordly  cavaliers  went  sailing  past 

With    restless   hearts,   with   gloomy   minds  o'ercast, 

In   quest   of  Eldorados  far   away. 

O  peaceful  times  that  olden  era  saw. 

The  men  of  holy  sign  and   low  command — 

Of  creed  severe — impressed  with  gentle  awe 

The  simple  native  children  of  the  land — 

Withdrew    them    from   wild    haunts    in   arid    hills. 

Threw    ancient   arms    of    tribal    war    aside; 

With   kindly   zeal  subdued   their  wayward  wills, 

Then   gave   them    peaceful  arts   and  civic  pride. 

The   mission    shone    near    by    the    purple    sea, 

Rich  flowers  bloomed  and  ivy  climbed  the  rocks; 

The  grain  and  luscious  fruits  were  fair  to  see; 

The  vales  were  filled  with  herds,  with  peaceful  flocks. 

No   ruder   peal   came  o'er   the   sunny  air 

Than   sacred   bells   that  sweetly   called   to  prayer. 

Upon  this  restless  orb  of  mortal  war; 

Of  mad  ambition,   selfish  toil, 

O  that  one  scene  had  held  its  happy  bar 

Against  the   votaries   of  golden   spoil — 

One   blessed    scene   where    Peace   might   still   abide, 

Though  violence  marred  all  the  world  beside. 


DKFKAT  OF  XARVAKZ 

When   Fortune   flies    no  deeds  avail, 
So  wage  in  haste  this  hopeless  fight, 
And  win  a  grave  this  rueful  night — 
Spain  has  no  use  for  knights  that  fail. 


220  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 


LEXINGTON 

Remotest   empires   felt  the   jar 

When  myriads  thronged  Arbela's  plain, 

And    Alexander's    rising    star 

Bade   hoary   Asian   glories   wane. 

What    good    befell    the    human    race 

From   all   the   slaughters   of   that   field? 

Two    despots   fought    for    lofty    place, 

And  one  was  forced  to  yield. 

At    Lexington,    (what    humble    fray!) 

Eleven    men    were    slain, 

But  centuries   may  pass  away 

Ere   full  fruition   of  that   day— 

Ere  final  import  of  that  field, 

To  mortal  ken  will  be  revealed. 

Since  human  blood  such  harvest  bears 
When  spilled  in  some  most  noble  cause, 
How  dares  a   despot  scout  the   laws 
Of  God  and  man,   for  base  applause, 
And   waste   it   in   unholy  wars? 


A  GOOD  WORD 

Here  in  a  lonely  grave  a  worthy  hero  lies. 
The  reckless  leader  of  the  boldest  enterprise; 
Now   ruling   all,    and    now   to    tyranny   a    dread, 
Martial  bays  and  civic   chaplets  crowned  his  head. 
Alone  he  perished  in  the  summer  of  his  prime, 
To  glut  a  brother's  hate,  atone  a  social  crime. 


SELF   (X)XTROL 

The    talisman    of    life    success 

Is    self    control! 

Whatever   makes   thy   power   less, 
That  bars  thy  way  to  envied  goal — 
Whatever   weakness,   vice   or    snare — 
O  shun,  avoid,   with  anxious  care. 
Draw  thou  a  line  with  stubborn  will, 
To    guard    thee    from    disastrous    ill, 
And  hold   thy  place   impassive  there. 
Preserve   thyself   at   any   cost — 
Yield  but  an  inch  and  all  is  lost. 


I  1)  VI.  8    OF    BOI1  KM  I  A  221 

A   CAMPAIGN    INCIDKNT 

Within  the  bloody  trenches  lay 
The  fairest   one    of  Slaughter's  prey. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  with  stony  stare, 
And  yet  his  lips  betrayed  no  pain, 
But   high   resolve    was    mirrored   there, 
As  though  the  doubtful  field  to  gain 
Were  worth   the  piles  of  mangled  slain 
That   smoked  beneath  the  torrid  air. 

To  see  if  life  could   still  remain, 

A  sergeant,  grim  with   powder  stain — 

A  rude,    rough   fellow,   quick  to  dare, 

Yet    kind    of    heart    as    women    are — 

In    tenderness    knelt   by    his   side, 

And    lifted    back    his    dabbled    hair, 

And   rent   his    bloody   dress   aside, 

When    lo!    a    maiden's    breast    was    there. 

A  startled  oath  the  soldier  swore, 

Then  slowly  rose  in   blank  amaze. 

Strange,    weird    things   we  had  seen   before, 

In    ventures    wild  *of    stormy    days. 

Alas!    we  saw   fair   cities   blaze. 

WH   saw   the   fierce    tornado   blend 

Its  wrath    with   Man's    and    Heaven   send 

Its  lightnings    down    to    quiet    ours. 

Around  us  were  Destruction's  powers 

In    every    form    and    every    phase. 

In  mellow    light    of    summer    moons 

Louisiana's   wide    lagoons 

Had  borne  us  far  to  scenes  where  well 

You  might  have  deemed  a  wizard  spell 

Had    bid   the   low   green   shores   expand 

To    vistas    of   some   fairy    land. 

On   Tennessee's    rich    hills    of    fruit, 

Along   the   Tallahatchie's   tide; 

Where   amber   Yazoo's   floods   are    mute, 

Or    Etowah — Tuscumbia — glide; 

Where    Vicksburg   towered    in    her    pride, 

Disputing  for  imperial  sway, 

Much  had  we  seen  no  future  day 

Will    far    excel — much    to    appall, 

To   startle,   rapture   or  dismay — 

But  this  strange  sight  surpassed   them  all. 

The    trumpets    pealed — there    was    no    time 
For   lamentations  o'er   the  dead. 
The  foremost  lines  began  to  climb 
A   wooded   height   whereon    'twas    said 
The  foe  had   rallied   for  a  stand. 


222  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

And   so   upon  that  gory  crest 

We    made   a   grave    where    she   might    rest, 

And   laid   her   down   with   tender  hand.  ^- 

Her   woes    unknown,   unknown   her   name, 

She  sleeps  upon  her  field  of  fame. 

No  storied  page  her   deeds  will  tell, 

But   calm  she  sleeps   and   all  is  well. 


KING  OF  THE  AMERICAN  IDIOTS 

In  his  own  name  and  by  his  own  proper  authority. — W.  W. 

The  greatest  of  all  our  Presidents. — Jones  of  Neiv  Mexico. 

You  can  fool  some  of  the  people  all  the  time,  and  part  of 
the  people  some  of  the  time,  but  you  can't  fool  all  the  people 
all  the  time. — Abraham  Lincoln. 

There  are  people  in  America  who  think  America  would 
be  better  off  under  the  British  flag.  Sometimes  I  think 
there  is  such  a  man  in  the  White  House. — U.  S.  Senator 
N  orris  of  Nebraska,  J920. 

Faithless   to   many,   but  ever   to   himself   most  true, 
The  world  must  bid  to  him  contemptuous  adieu. 

What  wonderful  lesson  will   History  teach, 
When  worn-out  shams  and  reputations  bleach? 
What    sort   of   honors    will    he    wear 
When    future    tomes   his   blunders   tell? 
To   lay   his   hidden   motives   bare 
In    burning   words,    I    scarcely    dare. 
"Platitudinarian"   suits   him   well. 
With  mulish  frown  his  lip  he  curled, 
And  bade  them  "break  the  heart  of  the  world." 

Subtle  arrogant,  of  sullen  -mood, 

His   imperial  robes   reeked  red  with  stain 

Of    unavenged    Am.erican    blood. 

Smooth  of  tongue  and  yet  of  shallow  brain, 

O'er  fawning  hordes  he  held  his   monstrous  reign, 

With  bloody   Ruin   hasting   in   his  train. 

Haiti's    crimes    and    Europe's   blunders    mar 

The  vaunted  splendor  of  this  Morning  Star. 

With  honeyed  words,  mellifluous  and  sweet, 

He   cast    our   liberties   at    Europe's   feet. 

The  pliant  tool   of   foreign   powers, 

All  lands  he  served  but  this  great  land  of  ours. 

Columbia    wept   at    hideous    waste 

That   left  both   land   and   flag   disgraced. 

Thrifty  to  excess;  of  self  and  power  vain, 


IDYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  223 

A    NYro's   lavishness   disturbed  his   evil    reign. 
For  startled  citizens    to  fiercely  damn, 
Tremendous  waste  that  moved  him  not 
At    times   awoke   unpleasant   thought 
For  dainty   platitudes  to  calm. 
Knormous  love  of  regal  pomp   and  praise 
Contrived   to  ever  keep   him   in  the  public  gaze. 
He  posed,  he  grinned;   with  brazen  face 
He  played  the  Caesar  in  his  transient  place. 
Cagliostro   skill   and    artifice   complete 
Securely   kept   him   in  imperial  seat. 
Sly,    timid,    hesitating,   insincere, 
One  half  his  plan  was  bluff  and  half  was  fear. 
With  sneers  he  sought  the  fame  of  Washington  to  dim, 
For  British  parentage  gave  British  thoughts  to  him. 
Imperious  lord  when  fronting  some  poor  slave; 
Obsequious,   adroit,   before   a   foeman   brave. 
His    apothegms    that    fools    repeat, 
Drove   Wisdom    from    her    ancient    seat. 
Foul  conjtirings  with  veils  like  drifted  snow, 
'Ideals    high"   to   screen   some    purpose   low! 
Quick  iii  denial,  though  naught  might  hidden  be, 
How    oft   he    stood    in    stark    deformity. 
Lust  of  rule  in  all  his  acts  is  traced, 
Time-honored    customs    he    displaced, 
Traditions   olden   he   effaced; 
With  sterling  worth  he  ever  clashed, 
'All   precedents    he    smashed." 
With  photographic  fiend  in  easy  reach 
He  never  missed  a  chance  to  make  a  speech. 
While    flunky    cringed    and    traitor    smiled, 
He    wore    imperial    robes    defiled. 
It  made  the   Bird   of  Freedom  screech 
To   hear  him   preach  and   preach  and   preach. 
'The    richest    President,"    the    scribes    declare, 
That   t-ver   "by   economy   and   care" 
Rolled  out  big  boodle  from  the  WThite  House  lair. 
•How  came  his   wealth?"  you  ask,   "and  when?" 
O,  question   not   our  mighty   men. 
Let  brains  and   books  and   glowing  pen, 
And    frugal    ways   explain    it   then. 
All   former   theories   be   sunk — 
It's    written    clear    in    Woodrow's    case 
That   all    that   moves   the   American    race 
Is    empty    bunk — bunk — bunk. 
Hooroosh!      O  hone!      O  hone! 

[Written  before  the  great  Land   Slide.] 


PINK   HILL 

A  fleeting  vapor  is  this  mortal  breath. 

Wt-  are  soldiers  all,  marching  on   to  death. 


224  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

MAXIMILIAN  AND  CARLOTTA 

[From  "Sun  Worship  Shores."     See  Prose  Addenda.] 

A  vision  passes  o'er  my  view. 

'Tis   of   a    sweet,   ambitious   dame 

In  home  by  Austrian  billows  blue; 

In  palace   wide   of   olden    fame. 

O'er  pathways  fair   high  fortunes  fell. 

Gems,   gold,    a   lord    who   loved    her   well, 

A  mighty  name,  a  flow'ry  land; 

All   joys  that   power   may   command 

Or  gold  may  buy — this  lady  had. 

The   earth — the  very   skies  were   clad 

In    joy    for   her — her    life    was    glad. 

The  tempter  came — not  in  the  guise 

Full  often  bids  fair  women  fall. 

Misfortune    threw    no    viewless    pall 

O'er   secret    love's    unhappy  sighs; 

No   sin   or   shame   a   blemish   cast 

Ere   Passion's   dizzy    dream   was   past, 

But    rash    Carlotta — happy,    free — 

The   empress   of   this    land   would   be. 

Ambition's   curse  despoiled   her    mind. 

With    haughty    zeal,    to    dangers    blind, 

She   clutched    at    Montezuma's    crown. 

Though  brief  the  skies  wore  scarce  a  frown, 

Came    Quaretaro's    gloomy    day, 

And    reason,    empire,    passed    away. 

I  see  a  stately  soldier  stand 

In  face  of  death,  and  rifles  blaze; 

He  falls;   his  blood  pours  on  the  sand. 

Lo!    Maximilian's   regal   days 

Are  over   in  the  Aztec  land. 

Across  the  ocean  billow  dwells 

A  maniac — O  plaintive   sight — 

Who  some  vague  story  ceaseless  tells, 

Then  pauses  in  mute  mental  pain, 

And  strives  to  tell  it  o'er  again. 

She   cannot   tell   the  tale  aright. 

Her  mind  is  but  a  rayless  night. 

No  more  the  queen  of  old  she   seems — 

Thus  ended   poor   Carlotta's  dreams. 

If  we  who  stormed  Atlanta's  wall 
Had  failed  in  our  fierce  plan  of  strife, 
Carlotta's  lord   had  had  his   life 
Xor  ever  seen  his  empire  fall. 
Whene'er  we  smote  a  victor  blow, 
WTe  shook  a   throne  in   Mexico. 
If    proud    Napoleon's    legions    bold 
Had    lingered  at  their  sov'reigns'   wills, 


IDYLS    OF    BOHEM  I  A  225 

A   storm  of  war  had  southward  rolled; 
The  steel   that  shone  on   Georgian   hills 
Had   glittered  in  the   land  of  gold. 
Tin-  shadow  of  so  dread  a  fray 
Dissolved  the  Austrian  throne  away. 
The   failure   of    Napoleon's   plan 
Brought  all  the  ruin  of  Sedan. 
For  dauntless  Jaurez  twine  a  bay — 
For  soldier,   patriot  and   man! 
How  all  a  nation's  glory — shame — 
Concenters  in  some  hero's  name. 


CORDOVA  OX  MKXICAN  SKAS 

Our  ship  alone  is  on  the  deep, 

No    mortal    vestige   sweeps    in    view. 

No  sound  is  heard  to  break  the  sleep 

Of   Ocean    in    most   royal    hue, 

For   sunny   and   soft   purple   skies 

Pour    luster    on    a    stranger    sea 

Where    not    an    isle   of    Ormuz    lies, 

Nor  balmy   gale    of   Ophir   flies, 

Nor  fair   Cipango's   hills   arise, 

But  all  around  is  mystery. 

The  great  Atlantis    here   should    be, 

Where  now  unrolls   an  ocean   sweet, 

A    peaceful    wave   without    a   bound. 

The  clean  fresh  world  that  spreads  around 

Is    worthy    of    Messiah's    feet. 

Here    He   might  pass   o'er  purple  ways, 

And   His   celestial   glory   keep; 

Ay,  pale  the  Sun's  refulgent  blaze, 

And   march   His   angels   o'er   the  deep. 


"FORGET  IT" 

Too  much  we  mar  the  mind's  repose 
By  brooding  on   imaginary  woes — 
With  heavy   thought   on  ills  already  past. 
Away  their  gloomy  memories  be  cast. 
Let   fell   Oblivion   hide   each   troublous   shade- 
Its    horde   of   dismal   recollections   fade. 
In  life's  campaigns  disasters  will  befall, 
Each  heart  has  woes,  Misfortune  chastens  all. 
Full  soon  forget  a  sorrow  late  endured. 
No  future  peril   should   the   soul   appall — 
Departed    ills    are    ills    already    cured. 
Forget   the  old,   nor  hunt   for  troubles   new, 
For  worry  kills  more  men  than  soldiers  do. 

(5 


226  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

MESSALIXA 

"Roaring  politicians  in  petticoats." — Napoleon. 

Unfortunate  dame  of  an  early  time, 

I'll  weave  for  you  an  idle  rhyme. 

Though  somewhat  loose  your  moral  code, 

You  made  poor  choice  of  your  abode. 

In   modern   era  you   had  been 

A  mannish  girl  of  the  upper-ten 

Who  loved  her  party  and  the  men — 

A  campaign  chief  of  much  repute, 

Who'd  preach  the  dope  that  seemed  to  suit, 

And  gather  in  the  golden  fruit; 

A  politician    and    a    sport, 

A  party  boss  who'd  hold  the  fort, 

And  collar  swag  by  hook  or  crook 

Whene'er  the  public  tree  was  shook. 

Your  playful  pranks  we'd  overlook, 

For  vice  in  Rome  of  long  ago 

Is  sometimes  fair  in  jest,  you  know — 

And   partisan   pep   in   lobbies,  O. 


STAR  OF  EMPIRE 

A  cycle  Empire's  course  has  run 
From   Orient   to  set   of  sun, 
But  now  the  realms  of  ocean  mar 
The  power  of  its  guiding  star. 

O  tropic  lands,   events   impend — 
The  breaking  of  a  grander   day; 
No  more  the  floods  of  conquest  wend 
O'er  northern  plains  their  surge-like  way 
The  summer  zones,  with  fruits   of  gold, 
Allure   strong  races   to   their   fold. 
O'er   Darien   hills   and   peaks   afar, 
The  glow  of  that  resplendent  star 
Now  falls  like  Heaven's  own  decree, 
And  mingled  millions  soon  will  pour 
Along    the    calm    Pacific    shore 
To  bid  colossal   empires  be. 


COMMANDS   TO   ME 

With   patience  of  a   god, 
And   resolution   of  a  fiend, 
Persevere!     With  utmost  force, 
Win    or    lose,    do   thy    part. 


IDYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  227 

1'OLITK  WARFAKK 

Down  by  Atlanta  on  a  battle  day, 

Two  private  soldiers  met  upon  the  way. 

One  wore  a  suit  of  blue  and  one  of  gray. 

'It's  hot,"  said  Mr.  Blue.    "Quite  pleasant,  though, 
For  sleeping  out  of  doors,  all  in  a  row, 
Prepared  to  meet  the  gentlemanly  foe." 
'But  rather  warm,"  replied  the  one  in  gray, 
'For  sprawling  in  the  sun  from  day  to  day, 
To  dodge  the  shells  that  fall  around  your  way, 
And  other  admonitions  of  the  tomb. 
Our  duty  is  to  fight,  sir,  I  presume." 

'I    suppose    it    is,"    said    Mr.    Blue. 

'Are  you  prepared,  just  now,  to  be  shot  through?" 

'O,   yes,   quite   ready,    sir,"    said    Mr.    Gray. 
'With  your  permission  I   will  blaze  away." 

Thereon,  in  haste,  they  had  a  fusilade, 

And  wandered  off  to  bleed  some  in  the  shade. 

The  southern  youth  this  observation  made: 

'Ah!    Mr.   Blue,   allow   me    to    inquire 

Your    disturbance    from    my    necessary    fire?" 

'Your  bullet,  sir,  went  through  my  diaphragm, 
And  gave  my  spinal  column  quite  a  jam," 
The   soldier   dressed    in    blue   politely    said: 
'What  has  become  of  my  small  piece  of  lead?" 

'It   spoiled   my  rebel    uniform,   and   then 
Fell  down  into  my  lower  abdomen." 

'If  that's  the  case,"  the  northern  soldier  said, 
'1  think  by  ev'ning,  sir,  that  you'll  be  dead. 
To   partly   mitigate   your    passing   pain, 
I'll  say  your  ball  was  not  discharged  in  vain, 
For  I  shall  soon  be  numbered  with  the  slain." 

Then  each  expressed  a  most  sincere  regret 
That    he   the   other   man   had   ever   met. 
One   wished   his   powder   had   been   wet, 
The  other   that  his  ball   had   glanced   aside, 
And  then,  with   much  sincere  regret — they   died. 


228  S  O  X  G  S    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

A   HOPELESS  CASE 

A  reprobate,  on  a  rude  couch  lying, 
Was  near  his  end,  and  slowly  dying. 
The  priest  arrived,  and  in  much  haste 
Prepared  to  get  all  sins  erased. 

"Your  enemies  forgive,"  the  good  man  said. 

"I  can't!     I  can't!"   came  answer  from  the  bed. 

"O,  but  you  must — your  love  to  every  one. 
Quick!    get  that  noble  duty  done." 
The  culprit  turned  toward  the   wall, 
And  moaned:    "Father,  I  can't.   I  killed  them  all. 


THE  SIRENS 

An  easy  smile  and  oily  tongue 

Will  win  their  hearts  when  you  are  young, 

But  when  you  wax  infirm  and  old, 

In  vain  your  swefet  song  will  be  sung 

Unless  you  have  the  ready  gold. 

No  gentle  heart  will  e'er  be  won 

Unless  your  bank  account,  my  son, 

Is  heavy  with  these  coins  of  gold. 

The  gold,  my  son — the  ready  gold. 


UNDER  A  TREE 

Let  other  men  do  as  they   please — 

I'll  sprawl  out  here  at  idle  ease. 

While    busy    people    toil    for    bread, 

Or  gold,   I   chose   to   loaf  instead. 

What  will  be  done  when  I  am  dead, 

And  in  my  little  coffin  curled? 

As  bad  as  now,  or  worse   instead. 

A  weary  world  will  still  be  whirled. 

Uneasy  fellow  men  will   fume; 

Will   ponder   much   in   mental    gloom; 

Toil,  tug,  their  petty   lives  consume 

In  getting  ready  for  the  tomb, 

And  then  they'll  die — to  make  more  room 

In    this    exaggerated    world. 

So    idleness    is    often    wise; 

And  not  to  think  at  all,  good  sense. 

A  Caesar   like  a  vassal   dies, 

WTe  soon  forget  both   sad   events. 

Enjoy  each  moment  as  it  flies, 

And    worry   in   the    future   tense. 


[DYLS    OF    HO  II  KM  I  A  229 

COU'MIHA    KIVKR 

Once    !    was    a    free    lance — 

I    roved    where   light    romance    might   be, 

From  Golden  Gate  to  sunny   France, 

From  Lake   Itasca  to   the   sea; 

From  California's    balmy    shore 

To  where   the   floods  of  lava  pour 

Down    Momotombo's    hoary    side; 

I've   sailed  o'er  seas  and  oceans  wide, 

Seen  castles   old   and   ruins   wild, 

The    royal    homes   of   sovrans   dead; 

Green,    boundless    prairies    undefined 

By    tyrant    Man's   destructive    tread. 

On  peerless  views   mine   eyes   have  dwelt, 

But  none  have  seemed   so   fair   to  me 

As  where  the  cliffs  of  granite  belt 

Columbia's   pathway   to  the   sea. 


A    BLEST  RELIEF 

These  hapless  mortals,  worried  to  death; 

Drudging,  stinting,  tugging  along  from  day  to  day; 

Clinging  to  life  to  the  latest  breath; 

Trying  to  keep  grim   Death  away, 

That  brings  relief   to   mortal   clay — 

These  highly  afflicted,  miserable  things, 

Really  think  that  life  is  worth  it. 

Each  to  his  torture  patiently  clings, 

Seeking   in    vain   to   perpetuate   it. 

Compassionate    Death    will    end    it    all. 

With    readiness    answer    his    happy    call. 


ANOTHER  "DRIVE" 

[1919.1 

'Dig   up!     Dig   up!     That's   what   we   said. 

The    country    must    be    bled. 

Are    all    God's    people   dead? 

The  Jugo-Slavias    must    be    fed, 

The  Ciscowiskoes  weep  for  bread. 

Our    cash    is   gone,    our    money    fled. 

AVe  haven't  got  a  bloody  red. 

Armenia's  under   Famine's   tread. 

Dig  up!     Dig  up!     That's  what  we  said." 

Hand    this   advice    to    Russ   or   Turk — 
Quit   your    fighting  and   go   to   work. 


230  SOX  OS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

MORE  TRUTH  THAX  POETRY 

A  tender  parent  who  discovers  that  a  son 
Is    writing   rhyme,   and    has   poetical   attacks, 
Should  take  him  to  the  barn,  before  the  day  is  done, 
And  lay  him  on  a  beam,  and  slay  him  .with  an  ax. 
This  advice  is  based  on  melancholy  facts. 


•'YOU'LL  NEVER  GET  RICH  IF  YOU  DO 
HARD  WORK" 

A  young  man  stood  by  the  ocean  shore, 
And  a  rueful  cast  his  visage  wore. 

"I  do  not  work  and  I  have  no  coin," 
In  a  tone  of  grief  at  length  he  said: 

"I  will   not  earn   my  daily  bread. 
I  think  the  great  caravan  I'll  join. 
It  seems  quite  strange  that  a  man  like  me 
Must   drown    himself    in    the   salty   sea; 
Something  is  wrong  in  the  world,   I  think, 
When  a   man  must  work  to  eat  or  drink; 
When   every  pleasure   he  must   miss 
And  a  fine  young  man  must  come  to  this. 
But    friends,    farewell!     I'll    die    before 
I'll    ever   toil    for    gold    galore. 
'If  you  do  hard  work  you'll  never  get  rich,' 
My  good  old  father  once  said   to  me. 
Now  I've  come  to  the  very  last  ditch. 
I'm  going  to  plunge  in  the  salty  sea." 

He  off  with  his  coat  and  hung  it  on 
The   outward  prong  of  a   withered   limb. 
"Vain   world   adieu,   for   I'll   soon  be  gone," 
A    playful    zephyr    sighed    to    him. 

He  flung  his  hat  as  far  as  he  could, 
His  boots  displaced,  and  then  his  vest. 
"I    feel    in   a   sort    of   plaintive    mood; 
In   fact,    I'm   really  quite   distressed," 
He  said — and  sat  on  the  sand  to  rest. 

Quite   near   at  hand  was   a   massive   rock 

Which  long  had  borne  the  ocean  shock. 

While   viewing  it  with  a   mournful   eye, 

At   its   base  he   saw   a  cavern   dark. 

He  cried— "I'll  crawl  in  there,  by  Jove!   to  die, 

For  I'm  much  afraid  some  whale  or  shark 

My  tender  loins  for  a  meal  might  try. 


I  DVLS    OF    BOHEM  1  A  231 

If  the  cave  contains  enough  of  room, 
it'll    make  a  first-class  gentleman's  tomb." 

He  went  forthwith  to  explore  the  hole. 
He  crawled  clear  in — 'twas  dark  as  pitch. 
Said  he:      "This  don't  look  like,  upon  my  soul, 
If   you   never   work   that   you'll   get  rich." 

While  clawing  around  for  a  spot  of  soil 
On   which   to   shuffle   his   mortal   coil, 
He  discovered  a  box  of  substance  cold, 
And  it  proved  to  be  cram  full  of  gold. 
A   pirate   there   his   booty   had   stored, 
And  the  nice  young  man  secured  the  hoard. 
'Twas  an  iron  box  like  a  big  bee  hive, 
And  a  motto  bore:   "By  work  we  thrive." 

Wh<>n  the  young  man  dragged  the  old  chest  out, 
Its  golden  treasures  made  him  shout. 
He   lives,  to-day,  in   a  mansion  fine; 
He  dines  and  wines  like  a  lordly  Turk, 
His  coat-of-arms  has  the  following  line — 
'You'll   never  get  rich   if  you  do  hard  work." 


MONTEZUMA 

So    Montezuma  met  his  doom. 

Though  bold  his  race,  how  vain  were  slaves 

Of  tawny  form  with  weapons  poor, 

To  famous  knights  in  manhood's  bloom, 

Fresh   from   destruction   of   the   Moor? 

With    armor — swords — of    Paynim    steel — 

The  paladins  of  days  of  yore — 

Proud   chivalry  of   old   Castile; 

With  cannons  loud  as  awful  storm 

In  heavens   high,   lit  round  with  flame; 

With  lighter    dreadful    arms    the    same; 

With  war   steeds   fearless   of   all   harm; 

Accoutrements,  regalia — grand; 

High  discipline — of  cruel  hand. 

They   were   death-angels   of  the   Sun, 

To  chasten  for  some  folly  done; 

To  write   the    land   a  bloody   page — 

To  smite  with  fierce,  relentless  rods, 

For  impious  act  of  former  age. 

Twus    vain    to   war    them — scornful    gods 

Heard   not    laments   on   every   hand. 

Mexitli   vanished  from  his  land. 


232  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 


THE  COMMON  LOT 

I    contemplate    a    stormy    past 
As  idlers  view  some  hoary  urn 
Wherein  loved  ashes  once  were  cast — 
With  cold   or   haughty   unconcern. 
What  more,  alas!   have  I  to  learn? 
Much   bitter  lore   is  now   revealed. 
Is    selfishness    Man's    only    shield? 
A  dread   reply  the   years  return. 
Some  ill   severe  each  heart  must  bear, 
Some  woe  disturbs  each  mortal   breast. 
Ah!    none  have  builded   hall   so  fair 
But  Sorrow  came  to  be  a  guest. 
With   courage   breast  Life's   ocean   tide, 
Nor  voice  in  vain  a  sad  lament. 
A  sea  of  tears  moves  not  aside 
One  touch   of  pain,   one   lone  event. 


"GROUNDS-ARMS!" 

[Atlanta,   July   22,   1864.] 

Romanceful    dreams    of   glory    sleep, 
Adieu   each    martial   burst    of    scorn. 
Trail  banners  proud  we  swore  to  keep, 
Throw    down    the   arms   with    valor   borne: 
Let    none    in    haughty    madness   weep, 
No    man   o'er   deep   dishonor   mourn. 
The  die  is  cast!     In  silence  wait 
While  foes  exult  o'er  trophies  won. 
Like    soldiers    face   the    captive's   fate, 
Our   deeds   of  war,   alas!    are   done. 
While  comrades  for  the  onset  close, 
And   Union   arms   defiance  roar, 
WTe'll  bear  the  hate  of  bitter  foes, 
And    strive   on    battle   fields   no   more. 


"GO  DOWN  IX  HISTORY" 

[1920.] 

Our   merchant   marine   is   in   eclipse 
With    1300    rotten    ships. 
While   the   Idiots   struggle   on, 
Another  four  billion  bucks  are  gone. 
Let    this    mystery 
"Go  down  in  history." 


1  I)  VLS    OF    BOH  KM  I  A  233 

DKATII   OF  (iKNKIJAL  M<  1MIKKSON 

Happy  arc  ih*-y  who  die  in  their  youth,  when  their  renown 
is  around   them.  — 


When   cannon   round   Atlanta  roared, 
The  soldiers  viewed,  with  silent  grief, 
.Mcl'herson    slain.      A    gentler    chief 
Xe'er  bravely  wore  unsullied   sword. 
He    fell    in    manhood's    utmost   bloom, 
And    even    foes    deplored    his    doom. 
Also  there   was   a   lady    pale 
Concealed  a  blow  of  mortal  pain. 
Within  a  far  Ohio  vale 
She    saw    the    weary    seasons    wane, 
Xor  had  consolement  of  their  gloom, 
Since  joys  of  life,  all  pleasures  gay, 
Youth's   brilliant   hopes,   forever    lay 
Within   our  gentle  hero's  tomb. 
When  war  prevails,   Man's  haughty  part 
Is  where  proud  Glory  leads  her  host. 
War's   dart    is   hurled    at    Woman's   heart. 
Though  famous  fields  be   won  or  lost, 
In  dread   she  waits  —  to  wail   in  vain 
O'er   husband,    son   or   lover   slain. 


MKSIANICO  AMERIKANISKI 

'Walk  into  my  parlor,"  said  the  spider  to  the  fly. 

Who    sowed    destructive    tares 

For   trustful    friend    or    puzzled    foe? 

Who    peddled    strange    political    wares 

From    torrid    sea   to   Russian   snow? 

Who  supped  with  kings,  and  scowled  at  folks  below? 

Who  muddled  up  all  human  affairs 

From   Turkish   climes   to   Mexico? 

Tangling,  twisting,  meddling  Woodrow  Mesianico. 


SFCFSSION  ORDINANCE  OF  MANILA 

What  Dewey  did  in   Manila  Bay 
Was  a   wicked   thing  that's  passed   away. 
It   don't    accord   with   our    New   Day. 
High-minded    folks    have    a    better    plan. 
They'll   give  these   isles,  with   much   elan, 
To   good   King  George's   friend,   Japan. 
Columbia    now    this    coast    resigns. 
Down    with    the    flag   in   the    Philippines! 


234  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

OLOXOIS  THE  BUCCANEER 

[From   "Sun   Worship    Shores."] 

Here  Olonois'  wild  fame  is  heard, 

Whose  fierce   career  wanes  to  a   word. 

He  sleeps  in  peace  beside   the  wave 

Whereon   once  rode   his   fleets   of  war, 

And  murmuring  above  his  grave 

Are  winds  that  bore  his  ships  afar. 

His  ocean  isle  and  last  retreat 

Is    wandered    o'er   by   stranger    feet. 

No  guns  o'ersweep  a  foamy  bay 

Where  once  his  fleet  of  cruisers  lay; 

No   armed   clans   obey   his  call, 

Nor  spoils  of  war  bestrew  the  earth. 

On  yonder  beach  no  wild  notes  fall 

Of  battle   or  of   lawless   mirth. 

The   bivouac,  the  tents,  are  gone; 

The  sheen  of  steel,  the   lowly  slave, 

The  fallen  form  of  captive  brave, 

The  chief  who  led   wild  outlaws  on. 

O'er    many   a   fated    Spanish    town 

His  gloomy    corsair   banners   waved. 

He  tore  St.  Jago's  colors  down — 

He  plundered,    slaughtered    and    enslaved. 

Fast    fell    the   heavy    cannon   peal, 

The  pistol  shot  and   ring  of  steel. 

Walls  crumbled  from  explosive  shell, 

And  flames  leapt  forth  where  missiles  fell. 

The  soldier's  cry,   the  virgin's  prayer, 

Were  borne  in  vain  on  sultry  air. 

Down  every  coast  he  held  his  way 

Till    millions    fell    his   lawless   prey. 

All   scenes  of  old  for  aye  are  gone; 

Adventures  cease  at   Empire's  dawn. 

In   soil    remote   or   ocean    wave 

Have  disappeared  his  pirates  brave. 

He   lives  alone  in   old  romance, 

Or    ballads    of    provencal   France. 

As   vision    fair   the  eye   sweeps   in 

It   is   as   though   he   ne'er  had   been. 

Wrell  may  the  cynic  in  his  mood, 
Scoff  o'er  each  hero's  hardihood — 
Ay,   moralize,   in   lofty  gloom, 
Above   the   great   Pizarro's    tomb, 
Who  passed  his  days  in  martial  toil, 
To  gather  gold   from  human  pain; 
He  drew  a  cruel   sword   to   spoil — 
To   mar,   to   desolate,   to   stain. 
Sun-worship  shores  he  gave  to  tears, 
He  reared  a  throne  on  human  woe; 


I  n  VI.S    DI-     BOH  KM  1  A  235 

The   full    fruition   of   his   years — 

The   substance   of   his   gaudy   show — 

Is    garnered    in    a   silent    cell. 

His  name  is  but  a   breath   of  air. 

rpon  a  land  wide  ruin  fell, 

In  arms  he  died,  his  dust  is  there. 

On  shores   we  view  Fame's  echoes  tell, 

In  empire's  chase,   (by  Albion's  guile), 

The    filibuster   Walker   fell— 

Whose  arms  prevailed  for  one  brief  while. 

In    palace    hall   or    Isthmian   glen,  , 

O'er    passions    of    ambitious    men 

Does  Glory  weave  a  subtle  spell, 

And  yet  her  voice  is  but  a  knell, 

A    siren    sound,    illusive    breath, 

That    rises    from    Oblivion's    grave 

To  fire  the  souls  of  thoughtless  brave, 

And  crown  their  fearless  toils  with  death. 


HIGHLANDS   OF   TIIK    HTDSOX 

Primeval  groves  adorn  each  lofty  height 

Where  Wealth  enthrones  in  fair  and  stately  seats, 

And   millionaires,   intrenched   in   golden   might, 

Rest    idly    in    magnificent    retreats. 

Yon   flood   enshrines   bold   Hudson's   name, 

Who  sailed  o'er  stranger  seas  through  perils  wild 

These   heights  recall   a   fallen   hero's  shame — 

A   manly    soldier's    bright    renown    defiled. 

'Twas   here    unhappy   Arnold   sold 

His   martial    honor   for   Britannia's    gold. 

The  fame  he  bravely  won  at   bloody  cost — 

By  dauntless  feats  of  arms — in  shame  he  lost. 

Revere    the    valor    of    his    better    time, 

Lament   his  fall,   and   curse  his   traitor  crime. 


TIIK  LANDSLIDE 

[November  2,  1920.] 

A    solemn    Referendum — 

Then  the  League  of  Blood 
Dropped    from    the    zenith 

With    a    dull,    heavy    thud. 
The     Egotist?      The    Autocrat? 

O  where  was  he? 
Ask  of  the  winds  that  far  around 

With    speeches    filled    the  fishy   sea. 


236  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

AXDERSONVILLE 

[I  was  a  prisoner  in  Andersonville  during  the  period  of 
the  greatest  mortality  there.  In  a  debate  in  the  United 
States  Senate,  some  years  after  the  Civil  War,  this  poem 
of  mine  was  quoted  entire  by  Hon.  James  G.  Elaine.] 

They  were  men  no  more! 

Brutalized   by    Hunger's   gnawing  fangs, 

They  swarmed  on  the  foul   earth  like  vermin, 

Or   sunk   upon    their    slimy   beds   and    died; 

And   rotten  where  they   fell — corruption   bred 

A    pestilence,    and    to    escape    it, 

Some  burrowed  in  the  earth  like  beasts, 

And    by   the    treacherous    sands   were   buried. 

Diseases  of  all   strangest   forms  prevailed, 

Nor  art  nor   surgery  was  there  to  bar 

Their  gorgon  growth;   all  subtle  taints  that  lurk 

Within  the  richest  and  the  purest  blood, 

Were  fanned  to  intense  and  vengeful   being, 

And   devoured    the   lean   and   livid   flesh. 

The  seeds  of  awful  scrofulas  were  nursed 

To  virulent  life;  gangrene,  cancer,  all  plagues 

That  rankly  fester  in  decaying  flesh, 

Raged  unchecked;    whole  limbs   became   discolored, 

And   swollen   to   the    point    of  bursting; 

Teeth  dropped  out,  and  eyes  from  their  sockets  ran; 

Through  cheeks  and  throats  great  ulcers  eat  their  way, 

And    as    the   stricken    ones    unheeded    moaned, 

Panting  beneath  a  most  merciless  sun, 

The  vile  worms  crawled  up  from  the  teeming  ground, 

And  fed  on  them,  not  waiting  for  death. 

Clear  and  shrill  within  the  echoing  wood 
Pealed  the  hunter's  horn,  and  the  bloodhound's  bay 
Reached  the  far  fugitive's  ear  ominous, 
Ten  ible,  paling  his  haggard  cheek, 
"Wreathing  with  deadly  pallor  his  sad  lijrj 
Freezing   the    coursing    blood    within    his   veins. 
Fiercely    upon   his   trail    the   hellish    dogs 
Unerring  sped,    shrieking   for   their   human    prey. 
Lo!   when  he  fainting  fell,  with  dripping  jaws 
They   tore   God's   image   from   his   parted   bones. 

All    were   malevolent    and    pitiless — 

Their  hearts  were  changed  to  stone  and  in  their  breasts 

Human   feelings   were   quite   extinguished. 

They    gloated    on    each    other's    misery; 

And  when  the  delirious  spake  of  home, 

They  laughed  horribly,   and  jested   of   the  grave, 

And   with   oaths   and    sarcastic  mockery 

Tortured    and    taunted    the    dying,    as    though 

Death  were  the  mere  incident  of  an  hour. 


IDYLS    OF    BOH  KM  I  A  23; 

Arch  fiends  from  deepest  regions  of  the  damned, 

Exultant  might  have  stood  amid  it  all — 

Ay.   deemed  themselves   in   Hades'   drearest   shades. 


TIIK  (JKISIIA  (URLS 

A   gray-haired    sailor   told   me    once 
That   he   had   seen  all   foreign   lands 
From  where  the  sun  straight  o'er  you  stands 
To  where  it  hides  itself  for  months. 

'Me   by,"   he   said,    "take   me   advice; 

Go    make   yer   home    in    fair   Japan. 

Ye'll   see    no   snow   or    bloody    ice, 

But,    dem    me    eyes,    the    gels    are    nice — 

Ay,  fine  enough  for  any  man. 

Ye'll  buy  'em  there  at  any  price, 

They'll   fatten  on  a  bowl  o'  rice, 

An'  treat  the  darlin's  well,  ye  know — 

Ye'll  have  their  hearts  jist  in  a  trice. 

Ah!    with  a  dozen  maids  or  so 

Tis   heaven   by   the   Inland   Sea. 

'Tis  sound  advice  ye'll  get  of  me." 


ONLY  A  DKKAM 
Here  now  we  rest,  O  love,  at  last 
Within  this  home  our  hands  have  reared; 
Adieu    to    bleak    Misfortune's    blast, 
And    ev'ry   ill    our   hearts   have   feared; 
Within  this  home  by  toil  endeared — 
This  home  we  longed  for,  won  at  last — 
Shall  we  not  joy  we  persevered? 
Though  low  its  roof,  its  site  obscure, 
For  grander  things  we  do  not  pine. 
While    its   rude   fabric   shall   endure, 
Love's  angels  keep  its  altar  pure 
As  they  would  keep  some  mighty  shrine, 
And    guard    thy   steps   from    ev'ry    lure, 
As  thou,   O  love,   must   watch   o'er   mine. 


TIIK   HLACK    FLAG 

His  goal  is  lost  whose  heart  in  combat  quails. 
Awake!   The  world  abhors  a  man  who  fails. 


238  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

OVERLAND  BY  RAIL 

[1874.1 

Through    a    desert    to    a    throne, 
Rode  Mazeppa  on  his  steed. 
We  fly  on  with  wilder  speed 
O'er    weary    deserts,    bleak   and    lone; 
Through    everlasting    hills    of   stone 
That   lure   the   nervous   hand   of  greed; 
Through    wondrous   climes   of   every   zone, 
With  rills  that  far  off  fountains  feed, 
Whose    restless,    crystal    waters   leap 
Through   awful   canyons,  dread   and   deep, 
Where   cloud-bursts   gather,   dark  and   dun; 
Where    weird,    appalling    shadows    creep, 
And    strange,    resounding  echoes   sleep 
Till   downward   falls  the  desert  sun. 
We  dash  on  where,  one  by  one, 
Vast  ridges  rise  to  meet  the  skies, 
And  mock  at  tasks  by  mortals  done; 
Their   soaring  peaks   confront   the  breeze, 
And    wave   their    plumes    of   mighty    trees 
In    twilight    gray,   as    if    to    say: 
"What   are    the    Pyramids    to    these?" 
Wide  valleys  spread  in  sunset  red 
With   hidden  promise   of  their   soil; 
They  welcome  hands  of  patient  toil, 
And    proffer    gifts    of    grander    spoil 
Than    filled    the    Spanish    argosies. 
Hemmed    in   by    mountains  blue   and  tall, 
Broad  lakes  expand   from  land  to  land, 
Where    shining   shafts   of   sunbeams    fall; 
Rich  fleets  will  ride  their   foamy  tide 
In    golden    eras    yet    to    come, 
And   Grandeur   bid    her   barges    float, 
And  Pleasure   sound  her  joyous  note 
Where   now   the    limpid    floods   are   dumb. 


AKULLA 

The  fellow's  dead — it's  just   as  well. 
They've  planted  him   in  yonder  dell. 
A  crown  on  high  he  failed  to  earn. 
His  future   lot  they  fain   would   learn. 
They  wonder  if  he's  gone   to  Hell 
To  roast  and  toast   and  always  burn. 
One   fact   the   books    of   Nature   tell. 
He's  found  a  place  of  long  sojourn — 
Gone  to  the  Land  Of  No  Return. 


WALKER  THE  FILIBUSTER 

President  of  the  Republic  of  Sonora,  Mexico;  General  of  the  American  fili- 
busters in  Nicaragua;  General  of  the  Army  of  Nicaragua;  President  of 
Nicaragua.  This  picture  is  a  reproduction  of  a  daguerreotype  taken  at 
Mobile,  Alabama,  just  before  he  sailed  on  his  fatal  expedition  to  Hon- 
duras. He  was  executed  on  the  25th  of  September,  1860. 

Walker  invaded  Honduras  with  an  insufficient  force;  a  shipwreck  deprived 
him  of  reinforcements;  his  native  allies  feared  to  act.  He  then  retreated 
along  the  ocean  shore  from  Truxillo.  A  British  war  vessel  pursued,  over- 
took him,  and  landed  marines.  He  surrendered  on  condition  that  he  and 
his  men  should  be  taken  to  New  Orleans.  Concerning  himself  the  agree- 
ment was  violated.  He  was  handed  over  to  the  authorities  of  Honduras, 
and  his  execution  followed  almost  immediately.  He  met  his  fate  before 
a  firing  party. 


I  I)  VI.S    OF    BOH  KM  I  A  239 

TIIK   FILIWSTKirs   MKMOIJY 

Wt-    wandered    by    the    golden    wheat 

That  waved  beneath  a  summer  wind — 

In    Thoughtful    reveries    repined. 

Her  pure   lips   blushed   emotions  sweet, 

Or    breathed    in    balmy    whispers    kind. 

From  auburn  hair  to  dainty  feet, 

Her    sylph-like    beauty    was    complete — 

Fair   casket   of   a  gentle   mind. 

In    splendor    shone    her    hazel    eyes, 

That  glowed  with  love  not  over  wise, 

Revealing    thoughts    she    did    not    speak. 

Too    well    I    saw    what    noble    prize 

Was  gen'rous  gift  of  Fortune  wise; 

The   rose's   bloom   was  on  her  cheek. 

How  fair  she  seemed  that  summer's  day. 

a\v  the  white  clouds  float  away 
Like  snowy   islands  drifting  through 
An   austral   sea  of  tender  blue. 
Their  outlines  o'er  us  threw  a  shade; 
Vnscared  the  birds  above  us  flew, 
The  drowsy   winds  around  us  played. 
She  spoke  of  love,  of  happy  years — 
T   gazed  afar  with  gloomy  frown, 
Then   swift   I   gloried   in  renown. 
She  smiled  amid  a  mist  of  tears. 
•When   you    have    won   your   lofty   goal," 
She  sweetly  craved,  "come  back  to  me." 
I   coldly   said — "It   cannot  be," 
And   in  her  eyes   I  saw  her  soul. 
The  years  have  passed — as  yet  obscure 
1   follow   Glory's  fatal  star. 
Her    loveliness    has    grown    mature, 
Y<'t    waits    she  like   a  vestal   pure 
Where   wide    her   golden   wheat   fields   are. 


<)l*R  BROTHEB  MAX 

Poor  himself,  he  counts  his  sorrows  o'er; 
For  sympathy  makes  low  demand, 
And,    grateful    to    some    friendly    hand, 
Receives  his  food  at  any   door. 
But   let   him    rise  on  Fortune's   tide, 
How  soon  he  vaunts  with  empty  pride, 
And,   all   forgot    his   sorrows    o'er, 
He    rudely    deals    with    fellows    poor. 
Old  son,  you  need   the  whip  of  Scorn. 
Yon    were   not  to  the   manor  born. 


240  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

GARFIELI) 

Honor,  usefulness,  his  country's  weal — 

These  were  his  noble  aims,  and  if  he  fell 

When    lofty   purposes    were    but    conceived, 

Columbia  hailed  his  manly  motive  true, 

And  cast  her  chaplets  on  his  martyr  grave. 

Ohio's   woodlands   sent   him   forth — 

In  toil,  in  penury,  he  gathered  lore; 

Our  fields  of  war  were  honored  by  his  tread, 

His   eloquence    in   stately    forums   rang, 

The  world  took  notice  when  he  bleeding  fell. 

He  sleeps   in  peace,  the  turf  above  him  dewed 

By   tears   a   sorrowing  nation   sheds. 

Life  is  not  much  at  most,  but  all  it  holds 

Is  in  the  striving  for  substantial  good, 

With  after   sense   of  duty .  well   performed. 

Who  utters  Garfield's  name  must  follow  him, 

And  blest  is  he  whose  purpose  is  well  wrought, 

When  falls  the  stern  command  to  quit  the  field. 


THE  POOR  MAN'S  COMFORT  GONE 

[See  Prose  Addenda.] 

His   comfort  through   uncounted   years 
Of  troubles,  trials,  toils  and   tears — 
That  braced  him  up  and  lured  him  on — 
His  only  comfort  now  is  gone. 
He  knew  that  when  he  came  to  die, 
He'd  have  a  mansion   in   the   sky, 
Whereas,    since    foolish    Father    Adam    fell, 
Most  other  folks  have  gone  to  Hell. 
This    pleasant    thought    of    days    of    yore 
The  people   now    accept   no    more. 
The  gruesome   tale    of   lakes    of   fire 
That  did   old   Dante's   muse   inspire, 
Is  out  of  date  and  gone  to  pot, 
For    modern    folks    believe    it    not. 
Newspaper,    preacher,    infidel, 
Have  wiped   the  poor   man's  joy   away. 
There  are  no  devils,  demons,  imps  estray, 
And  now,  alas!    there  is  no  Hell. 


RODEO 

Many  a  horse  (equine  disaster!) 

Has  better   sense  than   his  brutal  master. 


1  DYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  241 

SAN    FRANCISCO    LINKS 

A  Hairs   with  me  have  gone  quite  wrong, 

.My  only  notes  are  notes  of  song. 

('i)on    the    whole    Pacific    Slope 

-My  only  bank  account  is  hope. 

Like   Cassio — unhappy   wight — 

I  ascertain,  much  to  my  cost, 

And    not   at  all  to   my  delight, 

-My  reputation  has  been  lost. 

It  floated  off  as  I  went  down, 

It  left  me  shipwrecked  orj  the  town. 

The   sympathy   I   now   command 

I  easily  can  understand. 

But  'tis  not  fitted  to  allay 

The  headache  on  repentance  day. 

'Go  hang  yourself— jump  in  the  Bay," 

Is  pretty  much  what  people  say, 

Or  thus  they  talk:    "You've  had  your  chance. 

Your  tumble's  come;   for  those  who  dance 

The  music  bill  anon  must  pay." 

Job  had   friends  as   kind   as  they. 

Sometimes  I  sigh,  sometimes  I  think. 

Sometimes   I  take  a  quiet  drink 

Upon    the   principle — that's   right — 

The  canine's   hair  will   cure  the   bite. 

I'm  blanked  and  dashed  if  I  can  tell 

What  to  go  at,  what  next  to  do. 

The  Poor  House  looms  in  easy  view.  . 

I  wish  gin-mills  were  all  in  Hell, 

Distilleries,  and  all  who  sell 

The  "juice  of  snake"  and  "mountain  dew." 

I'm  standing  on  Destruction's  brink; 
The  dizzy  prospect  makes  me  shrink. 
O  what's  the  use  to  whine  and  blink, 
And  brood   this  way,  or  try  to  think? 
Let's  go  and  have  another  drink, 
And  be  contented,  calm  and  bold. 
Some  day  we'll  have  a   ton  of  gold, 
Drink  what  we  please,  have  royal  times, 
And  spend  our  dollars  and  our  dimes 
Just  as  we  please,  nor  care  a  clam, 
So  people  pay   to   read   our  rhymes, 
How  often  we  go  on  a  "jam." 
The  step  is  wise,  upon  my  soul — 
Here  goes  to  have  another  bowl. 


IN   MILLKN  STOCKADE 

If  Courage,  Fortitude,  our  steps  attend, 
There  thrives  no  woe  that  will  not  end. 


16 


242  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 


THE  SCIENTIFIC  MIXER  MAN 

O,  I  delight 

In  rhodonite 

And  malachite  — 

In  turmaline; 

In    bonanza   blocks 

Of  metalliferous  rocks; 

In  alabaster  pale 

And  argellaceous   shale, 

And  argentiferous  galena. 

O   have  you   ever  seen   a 

Sternbergite? 

You  have,  I  ween, 

And   sporadic   crystals   of   augite, 

Lencite,  andecite  and  porphyrite, 

Zinc-blende,    magnesium, 

Copper-glance  and   sodium, 

Lava  billows  miocene, 

Xephelene    and    scheeletine 

And    microcrystalline, 

Chrisolite  and  onyx 

And  other  kinds  of  chronics  — 

The  curious  things  we  glean 

Prom    the   subterranean   scene 

Of  the  geological  entrails  of  Nevada. 

; 

Ever  touch,  at  times  between, 
Such  tender  booze  as  gasoline, 
Pisco,  pulque,  valley-tan  or  kerosene? 
To  some  extent,  I  ween, 
To  aid  the  masculine  machine, 
Far  down  in  the  subterranean  scene 
Of  the   geological  entrails  of   Nevada, 
With  gold,  they  tell, 
Thicker  than  fiddlers  in  Hell. 

With    everything    in    soak, 

Ever  go  broke? 

Without  a  cent  to  drink  on, 

To  eat  or  smoke  or  think  on? 

It's  mean  —  yes,  it's  mean  — 

To  be  without  the  long  green, 

The  sheckels,  pistoles,  doubloons, 

And    all    that. 

Any  fellow  bellows  "No!" 

Is  talking  through  his  hat. 

The  bard  of  Avon  says 

Put  money  in  thy  purse. 

Without  it,  life's  a  curse, 

Or  something  worse. 

A  coin  in  need's 


[DYLS   OF   BOHEMIA  243 

A  coin  indeed. 

It  brings  the  friends,  the  feed. 

In  any  crowd  you  take  the  lead. 

Therefore 

Get  ore, 

The  quartz,  the  dust — 

The  metal  people  trust — 

In  veins  of  red  or  green, 

Blue,  black,  gray  or  submarine ; 

Anything  that's  worth  a  bean, 

Of  the  interminable  things  \ve  glean 

From  the  risky  subterranean  scene 

Of  the  geological  entrails  of  Nevada. 

O  fair  to  the  sight 

Is   stromerite 

And  hematite 

And  recementations. 

Ne'er  show   disdain 

Of  gentle  gain 

From   a   true   fissure  vein, 

Or  have  remorse 

To   ascertain 

You   have  to  glide 

Or  take  a  ride 

On  a  porphyry  horse. 

0  what  a  shock 

To  find  you've  struck  bed  rock! 

To  make  a  bore 

That's  empty  of  auriferous  ore! 

1  think 

That    life    is    vain 

Without  the  chink, 

The  rhino,   spelter,  dust, 

The  yellow   boys,   the  rocks, 

The  kind  of  stuff  that  talks 

Among  the  upper  crust. 

fie  plays  a   loss 

Who  says  that  gold  is  only  dro- 

That  coin   is  trash. 

He's  talking  brash, 

For  when  a  man  is  out  of  cash. 

It's  root,  porcine,  or  go  to  smash, 

In  argentiferous  Nevada. 


ALEXANDEB 

HP  w«jpt  for  other  worlds — so  the  legend  ran. 
This  world  has  ne'er  been  conquered  by  one  man, 
And  conquer   it  no  mortal   ever  can. 


244  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

THE  HUMAN  HOG 

It  is   no   propaganda   move 

To  say  the  pig-stye  hog  has  qualities 

Of  which  we  really  must  approve. 

A  few  good  points  he  has  are  these: 

He  dines  in  public  or  in  solitude, 

And  if  he  eats  with  motions  rude 

He  knows  his  case  is  understood. 

He  ne'er  complains  about  his  food, 

But  scoffs  the  rough  stuff  with  the  good. 

He  often  takes   a  bath — in  mud — 

To  cool  his  over-heated  blood. 

He's  sociable,  obedient   and  true, 

And  has  his  virtues  not  a  few. 

In  various  ways  we  find  that  he  will  do. 

The  Human  Hog — he  makes  us  brawl. 
From  San  Francisco  to  St.  Paul 
The  people  hate  him — one  and  all. 
The  mangy  beast,  the  low  jackal, 
He  has  no  worthy  traits  at  all. 


WASTED  EFFORTS 

Life  is  all  too  brief  for  joy. 

It   is  too  brief   for   hate. 

He  wastes  it  who  consumes  his  fleeting  years 

In  petty  broils,  in  feuds  and  enmities, 

That  all  must  vanish  with  his  dying  breath. 


IX DECORATED 

The  Cross  of  War  he  failed  to  win, 
No  Legion  of  Honor  is  on  his  breast. 
He   only   marched   in  hellish   din, 
And  did  his  bit  just  like  the  irest. 
At  any  place  he  might  have  died. 
No  sudden  deed  'mid  smoke  and  flame 
Filled  all  Europe  with  his  fame. 
He  hurried  on  with  headlong  stride, 
But  lucky  chances  passed  aside. 
'Twas  horror  grim  where'er  he  went, 
Yet  still  he  fought  with  stern  intent. 
His  fellows  won — he  with  the  rest. 
Although  no  badge  is  on  his  breast 
We  hail  him  hero,  soldier,  knight — 
True  champion   in   Freedom's   fight. 


IDYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  245 

TIIK   DHKAMS  OF  TIIK  STAKYIXG 

[Andersonville.     See  Prose  Addenda.  | 
Fitful  sleep  was  boon  of  deep  exhaustion, 
And,  like  a  trance  brought  on  by  subtle  drugs, 
Teemed    with    strange,    voluptuous    fancies. 
Xo  more  a  famished  wretch  the  dreamer  seemed, 
Xo  more  the  bitter  taunts  of  heartless  foes 
Set  baffled  hatred  rankling  in  his  soul 
Hopeless  of  day  when  vengeance  might  be  won; 
But,  like  an  oriental  king,  he  trod 
The  halls  of  gorgeous  palaces— spacious, 
Fantastic  and  unreal,  yet  wherein 
Were  banquets  spread  of  such  luxurious  state 
The  gods  from  high  Olympus  might  have  come 
To  gorge  like  heedless  wantons. 
Anon  he  lolled  on  beds  of  dying  flowers, 
Whose  odors  through  his  drunken  senses  stole 
Like  soothing  and  sensuous  narcotics, 
And  music  swelled  and  waned  upon  the  air, 
And  around  him  thronged  more  beauteous  nymphs 
Than  e'er  were  bred  on  famed  Circassia's  hills, 
Laden  with  luscious  fruits  from  many  lands. 
But  when  at  length  in  indolence  he  smiled, 
And  reached  his  languid  hand  to  pluck  and  eat, 
The   vision  vanished.     He  woke  to  rave 
With  growing  madness — to  beat  his  breast, 
Or  from  his  crown  to  rend  the  matted  hair, 
Or,  like  a  demon,  to  yell  till  vales 
And   silent,   solemn   woods  gave  back  reply. 


Kt'INS  OF  COPAX 

What  empire  here  was  swept  from  earth? 
What  seat  of  Power — Art  sublime? 
These  withered  stones  are  gray  with  time, 
And  no  man  knows,  no  annals  tell, 
What   awful    fate   here   once   befell. 
Too  much  we  sound  our  age's  worth — 
Xot  now  the  arts  are  having  birth. 
Civilization   oft   hath   fled    from   Earth. 


HIS   XKXT  AriUKYKMKXT 

This   busy   fellow,   .Man,   has  just    begun 
To  find  his  greatest  task  is  still  undone — 
To  get  his  heat  and  light  from  yonder  Sun 
Ere  oil   and  coal   and   gas  are  gone. 
A  mighty  theme  for  thoughts  to  center  on. 


246  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

AX  OLD  TIMER 

There  was  an  old  man — and  so  forth; 
Long  time  he  had  his  habitation  here, 
But  seldom  was  his  mood  to  go  forth 
In  quest  of  joy  or  social  cheer. 
He  lived  alone  with  mien  austere, 
And  pondered  long,  with  empty  stare, 
To  balance  heavy  thoughts  with  care. 
He  sighed  at  times,  with  look  severe, 
Like  to  a  fellow  in  despair. 

"Sit  down,  old  pard — I'm  not  inclined  to  quiz. 
I  cannot   tell  you  where  he  is. 
I'm   not  apprised  to  that  extent. 
Upon  a  journey  long  he  went — 
Upon    an    expedition    stern, 
Not   expecting   to  return. 
I  knew  him  well.     He's  gone  away, 
But    where    he   went    I    cannot    say. 
If   plainer   word    must    now   be   said, 
Your  friend's  non  est — in  fact,  he's  dead. 


THE  STRANGEB 

O,  be  busy! 
Who  is  he? 
What    is    he? 
Which   is   he? 
When   is   he? 
Where  is  he? 
How  is  he? 
Is  he?    Is  he?    Is  he? 
They  all  got  busy. 


BIAS%OF  PKIKXE 

Wise  men  are  few;  bad  men  and  fools  innumerable,  especi- 
ally fools.  Most  men  are  honest,  if  closely  watched. — Bias 
the  Cynic. 

Men's  many  faults  the  mind  distress; 

One  virtue,  anyhow,  they  all  possess. 

When  some  to  sins  and  follies  go, 

They  keep  their  records  white  as  snow, 

And  some  have  reputations  blotched, 

But   still    it's   comfort,   boys,   to   know 

That  most  are  honest  when  they're  closely  watched. 


IDYLS    OF    BO  HEM  I  A  247 

A    DISrOXTKNTKI)   MINKH 

"Man  getteth  himself  riches,  and  knoweth  not 
who  shall  gather  them." 

'That's  quite  a  mine,"   I  said.     "O,  yes,  me  son," 

The    knight   of   pick    and    shovel    made    reply, 

'But   what's  the   use  of   us    in   diggin'  ore? 

We're    only    workin'    fer    some    furrin    Jewk. 

It's   reel   discouragin' — I    swear   it   is. 

There's   heaps  o'  ore  comes   out   o'  that   'ere   mine. 

We   git  our   pay   all   right — Slumgullion   pays, 

An'  thinks  he's  diggin'  ore  to  use  hisself — 

But  then  he  ain't.     When  all  the  ore  is  out. 

Some  sneakin'  Jewk  without  a  cursed  cent, 

As  poor  as  any  tramp  ye  ever  see, 

Will    carom   on   Slumgullion's    pile, 

An'  pack  it  off  to  Yurrupean  lands, 

An'  spend  it  all  upon  his  beastly  self. 

Ye   see,   Slumgullion's   got   a   bouncin'   gal, 

An'  pooty  soon,  she'll  have  to  have  a  man, 

An' — in  course — she'll  have  to  have  a  Jewk. 

She'll  give  her  body,  brains,  and  daddy's  coin 

To  some    boozy,    worthless,    homeless    refugee 

Who's  got  a  furrin  title  to  his  name. 

That's  got  to  be  the  style  out  here,  me  son. 

They  call   the  rich  folks  parvenews,  I  hear. 

Well,  all  our  parvenews,  to  be  in  style, 

Must  hitch  to  Yurrupean  pauper  Jewks. 

The  wimmin  yowl  around  about  their  rights, 

An'  want  to  vote  an'  put  on  pantaloons. 

Why  don't  they  teach  the  pullets,  then,  some  sense 

An'  keep  these  furrin  Jewks  from  packin'  off  our  coin? 

'Taint  no  use  to  dig  up  ore,  unless  the  gals 

Is  kept   away   from  all  these  pauper   Jewks. 

Every  Jill  must   have  her  Jack, 

An'  every  parvenew  her  pauper  Jewk." 


NKAK  TIIK  SHOALS 

A  mellow  fruit  upon  a  tempting  tree, 
Full  ripened  for  a  lawless  hand; 
A  stately  bark  on  a  placid  sea, 
Drifting  on  the  rocks  and  sand; 
A  chafing  steed  on  the  desert  free. 
Neighing   its   rider   with   loud   command. 
A  blown,  unrivalled  rose  to  be 
Wasting  on  the  breezes  bland! 
A  diamond   on  a  barren  waste, 
Luring  the  beams  of  a  tell-tale  sun! 
A  nectar    cup   for  the   gods   to  taste! 
A  human   soul   to   be   undone. 


248  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

A  CONFEDERATE  TXFERXO 
[See  Prose  Addenda.] 

I  dreamed  that  I  was  free — I  fled 

Through  forests  wild,  o'er  leaves  and  verdure  dead: 

Through  jungles  dense,  o'er  many  a  stony  mound; 

O'er  fallen  trees  and  all  that  might  impede 

A  reckless  and  impasssioned  speed. 

And   far   away   I   heard   the   sound 

Of  bugle  horns,  the  bay  of  hound, 

And  hoof  notes  of  a  cavalcade 

That  thundered   through   the  midnight  shade. 

Cries   I   heard,  yells,  shots,  bullets  near. 

Still  on   I    rushed  with  hope  and  fear, 

At  last   to  brave  the  swollen  breast 

Of  river  wide;    its  tides  I  pressed, 

And  strove  with  floods,  with  currents  strong, 

That  whirled  me  swift  and  far  along. 

I  gained  a  shadowy  further  shore. 

New  perils  came  in  woodlands  hoar — 

Attack  of  beasts  that  barred  my  way 

Where  formless,  threatn'ing  things  uncanny  lay; 

Where  loathsome   serpents   coiled,   awaiting  prey. 

I  bore  with  famine,  danger,  tempest,  rain, 

Toil,  exhaustion,   hopelessness  and   pain 

Till  woods  and  wastes  and   foes  were  gone. 

With   fierce   intent   I   hurried    on — 

In  frenzy   fled.     From   solitary   height 

There  burst  upon  my  dazzled   sight 

A  city  gorgeous  on  a  plain  below. 

It  shimmered   in   the   sunshine's   glow, 

And   o'er   each    pinnacle   and   crest, 

Defiant  and  in  proud   unrest, 

Our  Nation's  banner  waved,  saluting  me. 

I  leaped  with  joy*     Lo!   safe  I  was  and  free, 

Serenest    of    all    sons    of    men. 

And  then  I  woke — in  dread  captivity  again. 

Rejoice,  O  men  who  wander  free 
On  prairie  plain  or  desert  flood, 
In  wilderness  of  boundless  wood, 
On  billows  of  the  stormy  sea. 
How    chafes   the   spirit   to   despair 
To  see  the  birds  careen  in  air, 
Delirious   with   unbounded   flight. 
Sad  Fancy  plies  her  task  too  well. 
The  very  fire-flies  of  the  night 
Float  swift  and  far  on  airy  plane, 
While  here  must  we  in  tameness  dwell 
In   solemn   scenes  of   misery  and   pain 
That  well   might  glad   a  demon's  brain. 
Yet  hosts  advance   in    fierce   array 


DVLS    OF    BOHEMIA  249 


To  break  these  gloomy  walls  away. 
Conflagration   then!    Flames  arise 
To  smoky  dome  of  southern  skies! 
And   Vengeance   give   its   wild   command 
Across  a  burning  and  a  wasted  land. 


AT   THE   ALTAR 

Though  scarcely  false  and  yet  not  true, 

May   never   woe   confound   thee; 
Content   upon  thy   footsteps   wait, 

And  every  joy  surround  thee; 
Sincerest  friends  be  ever  near, 

Their  tender  lips  caress  thee, 
And   every   weal   that   mortals   know 

Be  ever  nigh  to  bless  thee; 
As  noble  thoughts  and  gracious  aims 

In    worthy   deeds   employ   thee, 
May  never  sad  or  secret  fear 

With  somber  shade  annoy  thee. 
May  Wealth  strew  on  thy  pathway  fair 

Its   pleasures   without   number, 
And  restless  thoughts  of  other  days 

In   ceaseless  quiet  slumber. 
O,  Peace  weave  round  thy  happy  home 

A  cordon  for  thy  blessing, 
And   kindly  words   and    gentle   smiles, 

Of  truest  love  confessing, 
Be  ever   thine   to  make  of  life 

A  journey  strewn  with   roses, 
Nor   ever    Sorrow    teach    thee   where 

A  single  grief  reposes. 


TIIK  THINGS  WK  DIDN'T  DO 

What  noble  deeds  they  were — how  generous  and  true! 

'Tis  joy  to  sit  at  grim  Gehenna's  brink 

And    ponder    long,    and    sweetly    think 

Of  blessed  deeds  we  had  the  heart   to  do. 

Alas!   we  meditate  with  visage  meek, 

Or  sigh  in  vain,  or  in  confusion  seek 

Some  vile  excuse  to  cool  a  burning  cheek. 

Old  age  brings  many  things  to  rue. 

The  worst  are  these — the  deeds  we  didn't  do. 

Then  act  in  time — 'twill   much    avail 

To  keep   Nemesis  off  your   trail. 


250  SON  CIS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

I) AX  RICE 

"Though  countless  plaudits  fall  to  me, 
And  bring  me  coin  and  great  renown," 
Observed  Dan  Rice,  the  famous  circus  clown, 

"The   funniest  things  appear  to  be 
Smart-ellicks  from  a  country  town." 


"KING  OF  TERRORS " 

Death's  a  friend — he's  not  a  foe. 
He   reaches  out  his  kindly   hand 
To  worn-out  wreck  of  Sorrow's  band, 
And  lifts  him  from  a  world  of  woe. 


ALMAGRO'S  MARCH  OX  CHILE 

Conquestadors   and   famous   leaders    bold, 

Far  south   of   us,   along  an  ocean   shore, 

There  is  an  empire  with   its  wealth  untold. 

Peru  no  more  affords   exliaustless   gold. 

Invade   this   new   land,  its   treasures  to   explore. 

The   tales   are   marvelous   of  scenes  that  wait. 

In  cities  vast  unheard  of  splendors  reign. 

A   thousand    lords   reside   in   royal   state 

Who  fear  the  swords  and  chivalry  of  Spain. 

Huge  palace  walls  have  domes  of  native  gold; 

Red,  lustrous  gems  their  heathen  altars  hold. 

Such  are  the  wondrous  tales  by  rumor  told. 

These  fanes  alone  such  massive  spoil  contain, 

They'll  dwarf  the  Tnca's  wealth  an  hundred  fold. 

In   vales  voluptuous  fair  women  dwell — 

A  pen  inspired  would  paint  their  charms  in  vain — 

More  beautiful  than  those  the  Moslems  tell 

Do    comfort    souls    on    Aidenn's    joyous    plain. 

They  deem  you  scions  of  celestial  Bel — 

Their  dark  eyes  glow  with  love's  delicious  pain. 

All  scenes  invite  with  flow'ry,  happy  slopes; 

With  foamy  streams  where  fadeless  youth  is  found, 

Green   olive   groves  and  luscious   fruits    abound. 

Give  wildest  reign  to  Fancy's  glowing  hopes — 

We'll   war  for  gold  upon  enchanted  ground. 

Pure  mountain  streams  flow  on  o'er  precious  ore, 

The  ocean  shores  all  gleam  with  dust  of  gold. 

Such   are   the   wondrous   tales   by    rumor   told. 

On,  cavaliers,  the  march  will  soon  be  o'er — 

Invade  this  new  land,  its  treasures  to  explore. 


I  DYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  251 

KL    MOXTECITO 

The  languor  of  the  South  is  in  the  air— 

A  joyous   indolence   of   chosen   climes. 

Earth  has  resemblance  of  a  garden  fair, 

As  poets   image  of  the  golden   times. 

In  lovely   vales  perennial  roses  bloom; 

The  drowsy  gales   move  heavy  with  perfume. 

Through  scenes  around  low  strains  of  sorrow  steal. 

To  soft  guitar   is  plaintive  carol  sung. 

The   song  is   in   the   gentle    Spanish   tongue — 

Some  sweet  love  melody  of  old  Castile. 

Where  vision  falls  romanceful  views  expand, 

The  wooded  hills  or  placid  wave  appear. 

Why   tarried   not  sea-worn   Cabrillo  here, 

Or  stern  Portala  with  his  war-like  band? 

A  flow'ry,  stormless  and   Elysian   spot, 

It  wooes  no  toiler  wan  with  solemn  thought, 

But  idlers  gay,  whose  worldly  wars  are  done — 

Whose  hopes  are  withered  or  whose  crowns  are  won. 

El  Montecito!    by   thy  summer  seas 

A  rose-leaf  Sybarite  might  lounge  at  ease. 


MJERMENTAU 

Between    low   green    ambrosial    shores 

A  still   stream  winds   to  the   Mexic  seas. 

An   .Kolian  symphony  pours 

On  pinions  of  an  odorous  breeze 

Adown   long  aisles  of  towering  trees. 

The  cypress  and  pine  their  boughs  entwine, 

With  'their    trailing   plumes    of    Spanish    moss. 

O'er  the  amber  tides  that  flow  like  wine, 

Where  dim  the  beams  of  the  great  Sun  shine, 

Their  hoary  branches  are  stretched  across. 

The  mocking-bird  and  the  nightingale, 

They  ravish  the  air  with  frenzied  strain. 

Hark  to  the  dove's  melodious  wail, 

The   field-lark  soars  with   its   pure  refrain, 

And  the  waters  lave  the  lilies  pale 

That  swoon   with   breath   of  a   southern   gale, 

Then  quiver   like  maidens'  hearts   in  pain. 

Flow  on,  O  stream,  through  the  woodlands  wide, 

Xor  care,  elsewhere,  how  the  fierce  Sun  glows. 

How  glorious  dreams  are  cast  aside 

As  fall  the  leaves  of  yon  yellow  rose. 

The  lotus  that  blooms  o'er  the  limpid  tide 

Is  emblem  of  my  spirit's  repose. 

O,  calm  as  the  deep  cold  waters  glide, 

My  desolate  years  move  to  their  ci< 


252  SONGS    OF    A    MANWHO    FAILED 

THE  AUTHOR'S  EPITAPH 

In  scene  remote  he  passed  away. 
At  writing  rhyme  he  was  no  slouch, 
But  much  he  wrote,  'tis  sad   to  say, 
Reads  like  the  ravings  of  a  grouch. 
This  world  is  rough  and  life  is  tough, 
But    fight    the    ugly    battle   through. 
Recall   the    words:    "Lay   on,    Macduff, 
And   damned   be   he  who  cries,   Enough!" 
Thus  war   the   noisy   skirmish   through. 
Be   kindly,   generous   and   true, 
And  give  each  brother  man  his  due. 
Though  oft  of  Fortune's  baubles  cheated, 
Who   fights   to   death   is   undefeated. 


ISTHMUS  OF  DARIEN 

[From  "Sun  Worship  Shores."] 
Here  once  the  fleets  of  Morgan  sailed, 
With  homeless  corsairs  from  afar; 
Fair  cities  o'er  disaster  wailed, 
They   rued  relentless  hand  of  war. 
Past  all  the  shores  of  Colon's  land 
The  rover  came  in  quest  of  gold; 
To  ravage   coast   or  castle   old, 
To  plunder  with  remorseless  hand. 
His  fleets  of  war,  his  pomps,  are  past; 
He   fills   a    nameless    grave   at   last; 
His  empire  wide   has  ceased  to   be; 
He  lives  in  story,  wild  romance, 
In  annals  of  strange  feats  of  chance — 
Where  once  he  roved  the  seas  are  free. 
A  common  corsair  men  abhor, 
But  when  he  wears  a  Caesar's  crown, 
And  slays  mankind  in  useless  war, 
And  hurls  the  thrones  of  rivals  down — 
Despoils  the  world  at  one  fell  sweep, 
And  ruin  leaves  to  after  times, 
The  wrath  of  Heaven  seems  to  sleep, 
And  adulations  gild  his  crimes. 
The  scenes  have  changed — on  sunny  main 
No  buccaneers  explore  for  gain; 
Those  knights  of  fortune  sail  no  more. 
The  haughty  Spaniard's  reign   is  past, 
No  clouds  of  war  the  seas   o'ercast; 
Where  castle   rose  the  forest  waves, 
And  where  Wealth's  halls  were  plashed  with  gore- 
Where  Mars  moved  with  his  mien   of  yore, 
Now  Venus  rules  her  sylvan  slaves. 


[DYLS   OF   BOHEMIA  253 

A   COrXTRY    HOTEL 

Telephone  fiends! 

Yowling  and  howling  about  the  crops; 
Squalling  and  drawling, 
'Over  and    under, 
In   voices  of  thunder, 
About  hosses  and  oats  and  cawn. 
Calling  up  "central" 
Long  before  dawn 
To  yowl  and  howl 
Of  cattle  and  hosses  and  cawn, 
And  the  goldurn  middle  men 
That  rob  the  honest  farmer. 


TO  HON.  KOBKKT  OTLI) 

[It  was  almost  impossible  to  send  a  letter  from  Anderson- 
ville.  The  prison  rule  was  to  write  in  brief,  leave  letter  un- 
sealed, and  put  on  a  Confederate  and  a  United  States  postage 
stamp.  The  letters  went  to  headquarters  in  batches,  and 
about  one  in  a  hundred  was  mailed.  I  wrote  the  first  nine 
lines  of  this  rhyme  on  the  envelope,  and  the  letter  reached 
my  mother.  Mr.  Ould  filled  the  idle  office  of  Confederate 
Commissioner  of  Exchange.  The  exchange  of  prisoners  had 
been  abolished.] 

Mr.  Ould:     Please  pass  this  letter  through     . 
And  oblige  a  poor  devil  dressed  in  blue, 
Who  never  did  a  bit  of  harm  to  you. 
Please  pass  it  through  to  the  Yankee  lines 
To  a  mother   dear  who  sadly  pines, 
Blind  to  each  surrounding  joy, 
T*o  hear  from  her  lost  and  waywrard  boy. 
As  sure  as  war  in  Dixie  reigns 
She  will  bless  you  for  your  pains. 


The  foeman  chief,  to  Nature's  promptings  true, 
Perused  the  lines  and  sent  the  letter  through. 


"EVERYBODY   HAVE  SOMETHING" 

"Brandy  for  heroes." — Lord  Nelson. 

\Yhen   loud  among  the   lads  you   shout, 
Be  careful,  pard,  what  you're  about. 
You'll  lose  your  cash  without  a  doubt, 
Then  find  yourself  all  down  and  out. 
The  surest  way  to  shun  a   fall 
Is  not  to  touch  the  stuff  at  all. 


254  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

HORN   TO  MISFORTUNE 

A  fair-haired  child  was   left  to  bear 
The   burden   of   another's   wrong; 
To  feel  how  well  the  world  can  spare 
When  boldly   bearded  by   the   strong —     * 
And  yet  how  soon  it  learns  to  speak 
When  Virtue  bids  it  crush  the  weak. 
******* 

Her  lover  fled  when  vengeance  burst, 
And   she  was   driven  forth   accurst — 
A  timid   girl,   cast  off   in   scorn, 
To  wander  lone  on  paths    forlorn; 
To  be  the  by-word  of  the  horde 
That  gloat  on  honor  unrestored, 
And  beauty  tarnished  in  its  bloom. 
Though  base  themselves  as  wantons  vile, 
That   swiftly   scent   the  trail   of   guile, 
To   hound   the  erring  to  their  doom, 
Yet  deem  they  serve  their  God  the  while. 
Above  her  dust  no  mourner  weeps — 
Not  even  a  stone  shows  where  she  sleeps. 


NATAL  REVERIE 

Pew  ponder  on  a  vanished  year 
Nor  substance  find  for  solemn  thought; 
Nor  muse  upon  a  shadow  drear 
Not  all   by  cruel  chances  brought. 
Alas!   it  is  the  common  lot. 
How  oft  we  view  a  selfish  deed 
That  bore  its  needless  fruit  of  woe; 
Ah!    many  hearts  in   silence  bleed 
When  none  beside  the  sorrow  know. 
Though  mutely  is  the  burden  borne — 
Not    always   by    decree   of    Fate — 
How  blest  are  they  who  secret  mourn, 
Nor  mourn,  alas!   when  all  too  late. 
This  life  is  but  a  scene  of  war; 
Each  new-born  year  a  stranger  field. 
Woo  not  the  glow  of  Fortune's  star, 
Unless  to  stern  endeavor  steeled. 
Abandon  arms  at  one  defeat? 
And  cease  to  wage  a  dauntless  fray? 
Renew  the  chase  with  eager  feet, 
Achieve  the  goal  and  win  the  day! 


IDYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  255 

RALEIdH  AND  Ql'KKN   BESS 

A  courtier  said  unto  a  queen: 
'O  lofty   one,   how   passing   fair 
Thou   art   to   me — more    fair,   I    ween, 
Than  stars  amid  Chaldea's  air. 
And  thou  art  distant  as  a  star 
From  me,  upon  thy  regal  seat; 
.May    I   not  cherish  love  afar 
As  mortals  worship  some  bright  star 
That  makes  the  utmost  heaven  sweet? 
And   cast   no  homage   at  thy   feet? 
This  boon   you  cannot   me  deny, 
Yet    if    I   only  dared    to   speak, 
I'd  shame  the  splendors  of  the  sky 
With  fires  of  love  that  hidden  lie, 
Or  burn   beneath  my   palfid   cheek!" 

Said  she,  "0  knight  of  fearful  heart, 
If  thou  hadst  dared  writh   courage  true, 
Xo  throne   had   kept  us  then   apart. 
Thou   didst  not  dare — so  then,   adieu!" 


OLD   TIMES    IX    ITAII 

"What   uproar  is  that,  my  inquisitive  clown?" 
"It's  a  saint  and  his  harem  coming  to  town." 


AX   ILL  VOYAGE 

Be  this  compared   to  some  strange  sea 

That    lies    before   us  -fair   to    view. 
Though  safe  its  restless  billows  be 

While  yet  their  shining  ways  are   new; 
Though   beauty   tints  yon   azure   skies, 

And  snowy  .sails  on  high  are  spread, 
Shall  there  anon  no  storm  arise 

To  fill  our  startled  souls  with  dread? 

All   sunlit    now   the   tides   appear, 

And  perfumes  mingle  with  their  foam; 

Xo  cloud  hath  lowered  far  or  near — 
It  seems  but  rapture  now  to  roam. 

'Speed   on,  O  bark,"  the  proud  heart  cries, 
"And   at  the  helm  let  Hope  prevail!" 

Ah!   who  shall  say  what  tempest  flies 

In    reckless   wrath   where   we   shall   sail? 


256  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

RKTTRX  OF  THE  VETERANS 

[1865.] 

We  lay  them  down — the  arms  we've  borne 
Through  weary  years  of  strife; 
We  hoist  our  banners,  stained  and  torn, 
Above  a  Nation  filled  with  life. 

We  left  our  homes  when  darkness  hung 
Like    desolation    o'er    the    land. 
Our   battle  songs   with  joy  we   sung, 
From  plain  to  peak  our  clarions  rung, 
We  marched  at  Freedom's  high  command. 

Our  hosts  aligned  at  Freedom's  call 
When  Europe's  kings  reviled  our  cause; 
When  craven  lips  implored  us  pause 
Ere  blood  should  flow  and  heavens   fall. 

We  taught  the  foe  a  lesson  red, 
We  wrapped  his  land  in  blood  and  flame, 
And  myriads  weep  above  their  dead, 
And  rue  the  day  our  legions  came. 

From  plain  to  sea  we  smote  our  way. 
Disasters  came,  we  fought  again — 
We  hastened  on  in  fierce  array. 
Not  fortress,  mountain,  flood   or  fen 
Our  mighty  armaments  could  stay. 
We  wrought  our  task  and  wrought  it  well, 
Nor  turned   us  back  from   any  fray, 
Nor  cared  for  dawn  of  peaceful  day 
Till  Treason's  vaunted  power  fell. 

The  same  young  hearts  of  iron  mould 
That    bid    fair    Freedom    reign, 
My  beard  Napoleon's  cohorts  bold  * 
And  rend  his  strongly  fettered  chain. 

Columbia!   keep  thy  shield  and  sword, 
And  back  to  Europe  drive  his  horde. 

*  Maximilian's   empire   in   Mexico. 


PRAIRIE  DEGENERATES 

The  paltry  knave  who  whines  for  peace, 
Nor   dares   defend   his   olden   rights, 
But  sneaks  away  till  tumults  cease, 
Becomes  the  slave  of  him  who  fights. 
The  haughty  lord  is  born  for  sway; 
The  base  born   serf,  to   be   his  prey. 
A  mongrel   horde   that   will   not  fight 
Deserves  to  sink   in  slavish   night. 


[DYLS   OF   BOHEMIA  257 

NIKTZSCHK'S  VIKW  OF  TIIKOLOGY 

It  is   a  parasite,  a  curse — 
Finds  earth  a  hell  and  makes  it  worse. 
With  bloody  fangs  and  base  pretense, 
Each  creed  it  needs  it  swift  invents. 
While   grievous   ills   bestrew   its  way 
It  makes   the  human   race   its   prey. 
Th<>  tempting  joys  it  holds  in  view 
Wait  in  a  world  unknown  to  you. 


SUPERSTITION 

O    Superstition!    fettered    now, 

Hell  hath  no  fiend  so  dread  as  thou. 


PYRRHUS 

With  rock  or  tile  or  brick-bat  red, 

A  woman  smote  him  on  the  head 

And  laid  him   out  as   good  as   dead. 

They  dragged  him  forth  and  cut  his  throat: 

A  panic  seized  his  legions  wild; 

His  conquests  were  not  worth  a  groat — 

Ignobly  perished   Glory's   child. 

Through  sundry  papers  quaintly  drawn, 
A  woman's  hand  has  dealt  at  me 
A  sudden  blow  I  smile  upon. 
A  smug  attorney  says  she's  gone 
In  quest  of  a  divorce  decree. 

(The  gentle  sex — so  called — ah!    me.) 
I  will  not  let  the  Grecian's  fate 
Be  mine,  in  midst  of  my  career, 
Whatever  she  may  choose  relate, 
Or  to  the  world  shall  make  appear. 
I   answered   back,   at   any   rate, 

"Go    set    the    frantic    lady    free." 
He  spake  in  accents  of  much  weight, 
"In  thirty  days  so  shall  it  be." 

What  though  my  name  be  now  disgraced — 
And  over  this  I  feel  quite  sore — 
A  set  of  brains  are  not  replaced 
At    any    corner    physic    store. 
No  more  the  past  shall  be  retraced ; 
I'll  smash  my  glass  and  drink  no  more. 
Adieu  to  woe  and  wife  and  wine — 
The  Grecian's  fate  shall  not  be  mine. 
17 


258  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

^SHAKESPEARE  IMPROVED 

Put  money  in  thy  purse, 

Nor  take  it   out  again, 

Nor  lose   the  purse, 

Xor  let  any  one  get  his  fingers  in  it. 

This   do,   wise   child. 


DESCENDANT  OF  THE  CAVE  MAN 

The  human  animal  was  born  to  fight. 
War — Love — have  ever  been  his  chief  delight. 
He  feeds  on  love  until  he  gets  his  fill, 
Then  forth   he  bellows   in   a  rage  to   kill. 
Thou  bloody  knave,  to  nobler  warfare  turn ; 
With  Nature  strive,  and  fadeless  honors  earn. 


Advice  is  vain — with  fiendish  will 
He  turns  to  Science,  and  with  skill, 
But  only  tries,  his  fellow  man  to  kill. 


COMMANDANT  OF  ANDKRSONVILLE 

[At  the  close  of  the  Civil  War,  at  Washington  City,  Win* 
was  convicted  of  murder  on  several  charges.  During  his  trial 
I  sent  him  this  poem.  It  was  given  to  him  in  open  court. 
Reading  it,  he  handed  it  back,  saying:  "I  have  got  used  to 
these  things.  After  hearing  the  testimony  against  me  I  am 
prepared  for  anything."  He  was  hanged.] 

Our  day  of  triumph  now  has  come, 

Soon  will  come  thy  day  of  doom; 
Who  never  felt  a  human  throb 

Should  close  his  life  in  utter  gloom. 

Why  pity  thee?  who  dared  to  tread 

Our   comrades,   dying,    'neath   thy   heel; 

Who  laughed  above  our  ghastly  dead, 
As  with  a  heart  of  stone  or  steel; 

Who  jested  at  wild  scenes  of  woe, 

And  filled  the  captive's  cup  with  gall — 

We  triumph   in   thy  overthrow; 
We   glory,    monster,    in   thy   fall. 

Atrocious  wretch!  go  to  thy  death; 

Confront  our  brother  spirits  there, 
And  reap  the  merits  of  thy  deeds 

In  ages   of   despair. 


IDYLS   OF    BOHEMIA  259 


AT  TIIK  <;ATE 

St.   [Vter  gave  a   most  regretful  look. 
'Quite  a  lot  of  things  upon  the  book." 

'Ah!  truly  so  but  since  I  had  a   fall 
I'v    doubly  paid   for  follies  all." 

'Yes,   I   know  you   have,  so  don't  despair. 
You'll  find  a  harp  awaiting  there. 
\Yalk  iir.     I  think   I'll  call  the  matter  square." 


THK  PARENT'S  INJUNCTION 

[1917.1 

I'pon    our   country's   altar   laid, 

Go  forth  to  war,  my  noble  son, 

And   come   not  back  till   strife   is   done. 

The  soldier  has  a  weary  trade, 

So,  ere  disastrous   fields   are   won, 

To  others   leave  the  vulgar  gun, 

And  join  the  Swivel-Chair  Brigade. 

O,  I  shall  be  exceedingly  consoled 
If    you    prove    a    lounge-lizard    bold 
In    the    Swivel-Chair    Brigade. 


THE  ROYAL  COTTONWOOD 

Tree  of  the  Plains!   it  yields  in  rank  to  none. 

It  proudly   waves  where   tree  no  other  grows. 

IT   shelters   from  the  with'ring  Sun, 

Gives   cool  relief  and  blest  repose. 

The  panting  beast,  the  pioneer,  the  timid  maid, 

All  gather  in  its  welcome  shade. 

'It   dies  too   soon — the  tree's  no  good," 
Tin-  rancher  growls  in  gruff  reply. 
In  days  long  gone,  the  wise   construed 

'Whom    gods   do  love  they   early   die.' 
The  sturdy  oak  adorns  our  lays. 
The  lordly  palm   in  verse  we  praise, 
Yet,  struggling  on  to  distant  flood, 
In   heat  and   dust  and  solitude, 
Confused   beneath   the  noontide  blaze 
That   scorches  all   these  weary   ways. 
\Yith   joyous  hearts  and   words  of  praise 
We   hail   the   royal   COT  ton  wood. 


260  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

THE  FILIBUSTER'S  PROBLEM 

Ho!  chevaliers,  a  word  with  you. 
Which   one  believes  fair   maids  are   true? 
Can  aught  be  sworn  on  Woman's  smile? 
Though   some    fair   Venus  vow   the   while, 
Shall   her  brave  knight  believe  her  true? 

I  have  some  fears  I  fain  would  calm. 
Come  rest  you   'neath  this   lordly  palm, 
And  schemes  of  war  for  once  abjure, 
To  search  me  out  a  subtle  balm 
Strange  love-lorn  moods  of  mine  to  cure. 

In  climes  remote  I  wooed  a  maid 

Of  winsome  presence,  angel  smile. 

A  seraph  might  her  lips  defile, 

So  pure  they  seem;   her  crest  arrayed 

In   tresses  dense  of   raven   shade; 

Her   brow    like   alabaster    fair. 

O  lustrous  eyes  of  this  fair  maid — 

Two  orbs  of  light  beyond  compare. 

Her  breath   is   like  this   perfumed  air; 

Her  voice,   like  Music's  gentle  might 

Far  floating  through  a  tropic  night; 

Her  light  step  queenly,  and  her  form 

Embodied  passion  ere  its  storm 

Yet  dares  to  break;   Love's  sweet  romance 

Is  kindled  by  her  slightest  glance. 

All  who  behold  her — all  who  view 

Her  peerless   form,   her   perfect  hue, 

Her  tender   mien  and   gracious   ways, 

Grow   frenzied  in  this   lady's  praise. 

O,  knights  inured  to  martial  care, 

Yet  skilled,  perchance,  in  Love's  sweet  lore, 

By  those  good  swords  you  wield  and  wear, 

By  your  green  bays   of  battles  o'er, 

Of  triumphs  won  upon  this  shore, 

Give  answer  to  this  question  fair. 

If  Woman  vow  shall   Man   rely 

Till  even  years  and  years  have  flown? 

Does  Love's  bright  summer  ne'er  speed  by? 

Are  storms  within  its  skies  unknown? 

Cleaves  this   fair  girl   to  me   alone? 

Obeys  she  now  the  vows  she  said? 

In  cruel  strife  few  moons  have  sped 

Since  our  farewells,  yet  now,  alas! 

Strange  terrors  through  my  fancy  pass. 

In  dreams  at  night  I  seem  to  see 

The   semblance  of   some  woe   to  be, 

And  sombre  shadows  through  the  day, 

Do  fall  in  menace  round  my  way; 


I  HYI.S    OF    HOI!  KM  I  A  261 

And   mystic  whispers,  on  the  breeze, 
r<um>   floating  off  the  purple   seas. 
Hail  you  these  omens,  night  and  day, 
Dread   harbingers  of  treasons  fell? 
My  grief  is  sore — I  know  too  well, 
O  silent  knights,  what  you  would  say. 


END  OF  THE  CIVIL  AVAR 

[Written  January  1,  1866.1 

First  year  of  peace!     Fair  child  of  Time, 
It  starts  an  old,  eternal  round, 
Like  fugitive  from  balmy  clime 
Where  never  polar  tempest  frowned, 
Cast  rudely  out  in  wastes  of  snow 
Where  wild  the  wintry  demon  reigns; 
Where  streams  in  sullen  silence  flow, 
Concealed    beneath   their   shiny    chains; 
Where   noisy    gales   disturb   the    air, 
And  heavens  hide  the  stars  of  night; 
Where  Nature  grim,  severely  bare, 
Exults  alone  in  savage  might. 

The  stranger  still   his   path  will  tread 
Though  keenly  swept  by  every  gale; 
Though  countless  snowy  tempests  shed 
Their  wrath  around  his  semblance  frail. 
Ay,   with   a   mien  of  dauntless  hope 
He'll  face  each  sombre  peril  near; 
No  storm  within  his  horoscope 
Will   make   his   valiant  spirit   fear. 

His  raptured  eye  will  soon  behold 

The  radiant  sun  dissolve  the  skies, 

Or  turn   each  floating  cloud   to   gold 

Where  now  the  frown  of  Winter  lies. 

The  streams  will  burst  their  fetters  white — 

As  sheets  of  molten  silver  glow; 

The  hills  will  lose  their   raiments  bright, 

The  plains  their  dazzling  heaps  of  snow; 

As  angel  Spring,  with  airy  flight, 

Speeds  o'er  each  dull,  repulsive  scene, 

The  groves  will  own  her  gentle  might, 

And   shine   in   olden   hues  of  green; 

Rich  flowers  glad  the  wand'rer's  way, 

A  thousand  charms  bewitch  his  eye, 

To  please  in  flush  of  golden  day, 

And  mock  at  tribulations  by. 

While  youth  and  hope  and  bliss  abound, 


262  SO'NGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

He'll  riot  in  his  joyous  reign, 

But  ere  he  treads  his  fated  round 

The  tempests  rude  will  come  again. 

Warm  greeting  to  this  Peaceful  Year. 
War's  wounds  and  ills  anon  be  healed, 
And   notes   of  industry  and   cheer 
Be  heard  where  late  our  cannon  pealed; 
The  plains  grow  up  with  verdure  green 
Where  deadly  arms  to  arms  replied, 
And  Heaven  smile  above  each  scene 
Where  stubborn  hosts  in  combat  died; 
The  fields  be  filled  with  golden  grain 
Where  human  blood  was  freely  poured, 
And  Peace  once  more  her  happy  chain 
Weave  round  our  native  land  restored. 
O  fiends  of  War!    in  haste  retire 
To  far  off  climes  where   chaos   reigns, 
And  cease  to  blight  with  glance  of  fire, 
Our  country's  homes  and  vernal   plains. 
When  Glory  o'er  this  favored  land, 
Pours  richly  down  her  golden  flood, 
Let  none  disdain  a  brother's  hand, 
Or  brood  en  ills  erased  in  blood. 
Soft  heavens  o'er  us  smile  at  last, 
And  surges  rest  along  the  shore; 
Enough  of  hate  when  war  is  past, 
Enough  of  wrath  when  strife  is  o'er. 

No  more  with  eye  of  terror  view 
Each  wave  that  smites  our  Nation's  bark. 
The  waters  wide  are  calm  and  blue 
Where  lately  rolled  the  surges  dark; 
If  lingering  clouds  yet  fringe  the  sky, 
No  tempest  frets  the  boundless  deep; 
Though  dangers  yet  before  us  lie 
Where  now  the  billow  seems  to  sleep, 
The  ship  that  rose  from  Wisdom's  hand, 
And  rode  the  storm  in  gallant  state, 
Will  safely  clear  each  hostile  strand, 
And  still  bear  on  its  precious  freight. 
•May  those  who  led  the  van  in  strife, 
And  warred  the  foe  on  fields  of  gore, 
Now  love  the  charms  of  peaceful  life, 
And  }ong  for  thrilling  scenes  no  more. 


ROLLING  STONE 

O  youthful  romance!   its  change  is  delight; 

Life's  duties  are  dull,  its  labors  are  loss. 
Then   revel   in   bliss   till  Age's  deep   night, 

But  stones  that  go  rolling  gather  no  moss. 


I  DVLS   OF    BOHEMIA  263 

A    DIVORCE    CASE 

II.  (\  Parkhurst,  please  arise. 
You're  defendant  in  this  suit. 
Your  lady  says  that  you're  a  brute, 
And  soaked  in  whiskey  to  your  eyes. 
Her  life's  in  danger,  so  she  claims. 
She  says  you  called  her  fearful  names; 
She  says  you  drew  an  awful  knife, 
And  swore  you'd  take  her  precious  life, 
Smashed  all  her  fine  things  into  bits, 
And  almost  scared  her  into  fits. 
Her  miseries  are  most  complete — 
They  almost  drive  her  raving  wild. 
She  feels  ashamed  to  walk  the  street; 
She  says  you  tried  to  kill  your  child. 

Some  other  things  she  might  relate — 

These  allegations  ought  to  do. 

She  asks  the  court  to  look  them  through, 

And  pity  her  unhappy  fate, 

And  rid  her  of  a  wretch  like  you. 

The  court   perceives  the  proper  course, 

And  gives  the  lady  her  divorce. 


CORSAIR   SONG   OF  THE   SHIPPING   BOARD 


We're  in  the  business,  too; 
We   sail   the   Lobby   blue; 

Buying  men's  our  duty. 
To  any  Trust  we're  true, 

We're  faithful  to  our  booty. 
The  coin  rings  loud 
To  the  banditti  crowd — 

We  hold  the  bag  all  day. 
In  safety  we  ride 
On  Corruption's  tide; 

Ship  ahoy!    Hooray! 


A    MINING   PRESIDENT 

His  minions  stood  around   in  meek  array, 
Each  with  a  grievous  tale  of  woe  to  say. 
When   all   to   him   had   properly   salaamed, 
He  curtly  said,  in  his  imperial  way: 
"Consider  everything  and  everybody  damned — 
And   start    the   business  of   the  day." 


264  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 


COLUMBIA'S  FIRST  MONARCH 

"Aye,  let  them  feast,"  in  scorn  he  said, 
"Who  deign  to  kiss  a  tyrant's  hand, 
But  were  they  like  "their  fathers  bred, 
Ere  such  a  throne  as  mine  would  stand, 
An  hundred  fields  would  smoke   with  dead. 


A  DIVORCE  ATTORNEY 

The  attorney  came  down  like  a  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  clients  were  shorn  of  their  greenbacks  and  gold, 
For  the  fees  that  he  charged  were  as  frightful  to  see 
As  the  sharks  that  swim  gaily  in  blue  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is  green, 
Those  people  with  ducats  at  sunset  were  seen; 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  autumn  hath  blown, 
Their  wealth  on  the  morrow  was  vanished  and  gone. 

For  the  minion  of  Law  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  he  raked  in  his  fees  of  great  size  as  he  passed, 
And  the  hearts  of  his  clients  grew  deadly  and  chill, 
As  they  gave  him  one  look — and  settled  his  bill. 

There  sat  a  husband,  distorted  and  pale, 
With  a  patch  on  his  pants  and  no  stamps  on  his  mail; 
His  mouth  was  all  silent,  his  nostrils  unblown, 
His  troubles   were  lifted,  his  money  was  gone. 


MADRIGAL 

Rise,  0  my  love — my  fair  one — O  come  away. 
Lo!    the  winter  is  past,  and  the  storms  disband; 
The  hills  are  all  green  in  their  spring  time  array. 
Flowers  appear;   glad  birds  are  singing  alway — 
The  sound  of  the  turtle  is  heard   in  our  land. 
O,  be  thou  like  a  rose  perfuming  the  air, 
For  sweet  is  thy  voice,  and  thy  countenance  fair, 
Rise,  O  my  love,  my  fair  one,   and  come  away. 


DOXT  FORGET  YOURSELF 

Old  age  and  its  memories  make  us  wise — 
Ay,  harden  our  hearts  and  open  our  eyes. 
In  generous  deeds  find  pleasant  employ, 
But  always  be  good  to  yourself,  my  boy. 


IDYLS    OK    BOH  KM  I  A  265 

TO  TIIK  MI'S  US 

Fair  ladies  of  immortal  Greece, 
The  bard  must  pack  his  traps  and  wander  hence. 
His  rambles  in  Parnassian  groves  must  cease. 
Adieu!  he  goes  to  find  the  Golden  Fleece — 
The  wherewithal  to  meet  each  day's  expense. 
We  know  that  rhymes  pass  current  in  the  sky, 
And  song  is  there  esteemed  as  good  as  gold, 
But  he  who  dwells  among  these  mortals  cold 
.Must  have  the  coin,  or  show  good  reason  why. 
The  poet  leaves  you,  ladies,  for  a  while; 
Each  lissome  dame  on  him  has  ceased  to  smile, 
And   sundry   people   give   him   cool   reply; 
He  needs  to  find  some  frontier  bandit's  cave, 
Where  yellow  heaps  of  gold  neglected  lie. 
His    landlord    is    a    mild,   sarcastic    knave 
Who  views  him  with  a  cold  and  fishy  eye. 
Like  a  prodigal  he's  had  his  day, 
And  ascertains,  with  something  of  a  sigh, 
None   heed   his   ready   promises   to   pay. 
Adieu,  old  ladies  of  the  Grecian  clime, 
His  pocket's  empty  and   he's  out  of  rhyme. 


OIK  FALLEN  BRAVE 

Above    the    nation's    brave    what    shall    we   strew? 

For  sorrow  that  we  feel,  cast  boughs  of  yew, 

The   yellow   marigold,   and   aloes   bright; 

For   majesty   of  soul   cast   lilies   white, 

And   fragrant    mignonettes;    for    death,    dead    leaves: 

Moss   for   maternal   love — Columbia  grieves! 

The  myrtle  vine  for  saddened  love  of  all. 

For  patriotic   zeal   that   never  slept 

Wlvn   Warfare's  thousand  perils  did  appall, 

The  chamomile;    the  passion   flower   fall 

Upon  their  graves — how  well  their  faith  they  kept 

On.  bloody   field,   before   the   shattered   wall. 

For   high   nobility,   fresh    leaves   of  oak; 

Violets  for  worth;    for  pity,  leaves  of  pine; 

And  for  high  constancy  that  never  broke 

In  prison  vile  or  on  embattled  line, 

The   hyacinth  of  many  hues;    for  youth, 

The  yellow  crocus,  early  blooming,  cast; 

For  pride,  red  roses  and  nightshade  for  truth. 

The  fadeless  amaranth  cast   thou  at  last. 


266  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

DIVINE  TOBACCO 

The  tender  sex  full  oft  enthuse 

When  wordy  folks  King  Nicotine  abuse. 

Divinest  weed!    Of  Peace  a  symbol  fair, 

I  give  to  thee  thy  worthy  dues. 

Tobacco,  hail!  thrice  blessed  weed; 

Eternal   solace,   friend    indeed; 

A  boon   to  toilers   everywhere; 

To  thinkers,  idlers,  dreamers,  knights  who  dare; 

Coy  tempter  of  poetic  muse, 

And  vanquisher  of  human  care; 

Adored  alike  by  Christians,  Turks  and  Jews; 

By  honest  folk  of  Pagan  breed; 

By  red  men,  heathen  clans  without  a  creed. 

A  peaceful  pipe  is  emblem  true 

Of  olden  love  or  friendship  new. 

It  mends  the  tie  by  discord  broke, 

And  gives  a  balm  for  Hymen's  yoke; 

It  mocks  at  matrimonial  stews. 

The  fragrant  weed  with  joy  we  smoke; 

For  choice  a  pipe,  cigars   I   ne'er   refuse ; 

Good  snuff  I  also  use, 

To  chew  I  often  choose. 


COLUMBUS  IN  CHAINS 

[On   November   5th,    1500,   Columbus   entered   Cadiz,    Spain, 
under  guard,  wearing  chains  and  fetters.] 

Xo  deeper  cloud  or  baser  stain 
Falls  o'er  a  land  whose  glories  wane, 
Than  Ingratitude's  vile  spot  of  shame. 
'Tis  thine  to  wear,  O  cruel  Spain. 


•MY   FELLOW  COUNTRYMEN" 

Although  "the  foreign  element" 

Against  this   query  may  demur — - 
When  Woodrow  says  "my  countrymen," 

To  whom  does  he  refer? 
To  Yankee  chumps  with  optics  blind, 

Obessed  by  pyroscopic  wiles? 

Or  yoemen  of  the  British  isles 
That  lure  his  sly  and  foxy  mind? 
To  either  class  he's  much  inclined, 
But  all  his  thoughts  are  not  divined. 


[DYLS  OF  BOHEMIA  267 

TIIK  SECTION  HAND'S  WISH 

"What  shall  I  give  you.  Pat, 
By  a  fairy's  high  command?" 
"Please,    sir,"   the    weary    man   replies, 
"Have  time  hang  heavy  on  me  hands." 


COFFKK  AND  TOBACCO 

Balm   and   solace   in   our   need, 
Friends   at   all    times— friends    indeed— 
The   blessed   berry  and   the  blessed   weed. 

When  Woman   and   the   Snake  deceived 
The   great   forefather   of   our   clan. 
(Scarce  can  his  folly  be  believed,) 
A  pitying  angel  soon  relieved 
The  sorrows  of  distracted  Man. 
Concealed   by   some   celestial   plan, 
This   angel   threw  from   heavenly   blue 
The    pipe-of-peace    and    coffee-bean    to    Man. 
Though  prudes  may  rave  and  crazy  people  frown, 
We'll  quaff  the  precious  nectar  down; 
Though   ladies  jeer   and   preachers  choke, 
We'll    smoke!     and    smoke!     and    smoke! 


WATCIIFTL  WAITING  ON  THE  KIO  GRANDE 

[1914.1 

John   Brown's   body 

Is  wriggling  in  its  grave, 
In  the  land  of  the  sneak 

And  the  home  of  the  knave. 


A   VAIN   RESOLVE 

O  crazy   man   with   a  sounding  lyre, 
Go  toss  your  songs  in  a  kitchen  fire. 
If  e'er    I   touch   sweet  harp   again, 
Drive  me  away  from  the  haunts  of   men. 
O  bury  me  on  some  Polar  shore 
Where  the  walrus  roam  or  billows  roar. 
While  Byron,  Burns,  Will   Shakespeare  shine, 
There's  enough   of   song  for  the   ladies   nine. 
I'll   wear  old   clothes   for   the  jades   no  more, 
Nor  suffer  for  them  on  rations  poor. 
.My  sorrows  and  songs  I  now  resign — 
Here   goes  to   write   my   very    last   line. 


268  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

THE  ARMY  MULE 

[1865.] 

With  ready  heels  and  impulse  gay 
He  made  civilians  keep  away; 
He  hauled   our   powder   to   the   fray, 
He  scattered    rations    on    our    way; 
In  times  of  danger  he  was   cool. 
While  heroes  don  the  wreath  of  bay, 
O   honor,    too,    the   Army    Mule. 

"Ulysses  built  a  wooden  horse 
To    make    a    woman    taste    remorse. 
King   Porus  had  his  elephants, 
The  Romans  dressed  in  iron  pants; 
The  Seythians  rode  their  shaggy  steeds, 
As  did  the  Persians  and  the  Medes. 
O  sages  of  our  martial  schools, 
What  did  they  know  of  army  mules? 

How  hoarsely  at  the  break  of  day 
Pealed  through  the  woods  and  far  away, 
The  Army  Mule's   resentful   bray? 
How  stubbornly  he'd  bravely   tug 
To  drag  our  wagons  through  the  mire, 
While  bloody  spurs  tore  at  his  girth, 
And  sudden  speed  displayed  his  worth, 
And  whip-stocks   laid   across   his    mug 
Aroused  to  heat  his  martial  fire. 
But  when  that  mule  refused  to  go, 
In  vain  the  wrathful  teamster's  blow. 
'Twas  fun  when  raw  recruits  would  fool 
Around,  behind  an  army  mule. 

Now  that  the  country  has  been  saved, 
Who  ever   thanks   the   Army   Mule 
For  all  the  dangers  that  he  braved, 
Or  cares  a  dash  what  he  endured 
Of   blows?      Of    military    snubs? 
His  divers  ills  nobody  cured 
Except  by  breaking  rails  and  clubs 
Across   his  back  and   stubborn   head, 
And  calling  him  outrageous  names. 
In  my  last  will,  when  I  am  dead, 
I'll    recognize    his    worthy    claims. 
While    marble   piles   extol    the   guilt 
Of  bloody  knave  or  lucky  fool, 
I'll    have   a   noble   statue   built 
In  honor  of  the  Army  Mule. 
On  costly  granite  he  shall  stand, 
Surrounded  by  his  rebel  hay, 
In  act  of  waking  up  the   land 


I  I)  VLS    OF    HO  HEM  I  A  269 

With  his  reverberating  bray. 

I'niise  saint  and  sinner,  knave  and  fool — 

I'll   boom  the  noble  Army   Mule. 


TO  KIXCJ   ALCOHOL 

The  vine  bears  three  sorts  of  grapes  —  pleasure,  intoxication 
and  repentance.  — 


I  guess,  old  fellow,  you  and  I  will  part. 

We've  stuck  together  now  for  quite  a  while. 

I'm   little   versed   in  the  accounting  art 

So  dearly  prized  by  people  mercantile; 

1  cannot  balance  books  within  a  mile 

Of  any  designated  point,  and  yet, 

When  I  look  back  on  precious  years  now  flown, 

And  think  of  things  that  cause  me  wild  regret; 

Of  follies  that  should  melt  a  heart  of  stone; 

Of  crimes!   for  which  I  never  can  atone, 

Whose  memories  assassinate  my  peace, 

And  make  me  covet  death  as  but  release 

From  such  a  life  —  disastrous  grown! 

And  when  I  think  of  all  I  might  have  won, 

Of  brilliant  hopes  and  nothing  noble  done; 

Of  miseries,  of  deep  disgrace  —  I  feel 

Like  cursing  you  with  most  terrific  zeal. 

The  long  account  that  stands  'tween  you  and  I 
Shows  little  profit  and  tremendous  loss. 
When  first  your  Majesty  I  came  across, 
(The   very  recollection  makes   me  sigh,) 
You  appeared   a   pleasant  rogue   indeed. 
How  well  you  made  an  idle  ev'ning  speed. 
Delightful  times  we  had  together  then; 
Sometimes  the  ladies  joined  us  in  our  den  — 
What  fun  they  think  it  is  to  drink  with  men. 
Of  coin  and  friends  and  clothes  I  had  enough; 
I  wore  my  jewels  and  my  diamonds,  too; 
But    now,   you    see,    I'm   looking  pretty   rough 
And  all   because   I   cast  my  lot  with   you. 
And  you  a  knave,  I  find,  of  deepest  dye; 
A  liar  skilled  in  uttermost  deceit. 
How  oft  you've  turned  me  on  the  street, 
A  spectacle  to  passers  by. 

I've  found  you  out,  at  last,  a  deadly  foe; 
How  basely  treacherous  I  know  you  are! 
I  came  from  years  of  war  without  a  scar, 
And  yet  for  you  a  number  I  can  show. 
You've  got  me  in  a  hundred  savage  broils, 
And  sev'ral  times  have  had  me  nearly  killed. 


270  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

My   bosom   is  with   indignation   filled 

To  think  you  waste  the  fruit  of  all  my  toils. 

Beelzebub  should  only  have  his  due — 

I  roundly  curse  myself  as  well  as  you. 

You  think  you've  played  a  game  that's  mighty  fine, 
And   put  an   end  to  hope   in  my  affairs, 
But  look  you  now — my  age  is  thirty-nine — 
(And  in  my  head  and  beard  I  find  gray  hairs 
That  put  you  in,  that  I  keep  pulling  out;) 
Do  you  suspect  what   I  am  now  about? 
From  this  time  on  I  want  no  more  of  you. 
Pass  on  your  way  for  I  have  chosen  mine. 
Go  fill  your  dirty  troughs  for   other  swine, 
And  let  them  swill,  as  I  was  wont  to  do, 
And  rot  their  brains  with  filthy  rum  and  wine. 
Make  beasts  and  brutes  of  other  hapless  men — 
You'll  never  make  a  slave  of  me  again. 

(Alas!   for  poets  and  their  silly  ways; 
This  noble  purpose  lasted  ninety  days. 
I  got  a  store  of  golden  coin  ahead, 
And  then  the  merry  underworld  I  painted  red.) 


MACDOXALI)  AT  YTAGRAM 

Death  was  the  victor  of  them  all. 
Each  moment  saw  its  thousands  fall, 
Nor  skill,  nor  Desperation's  blows, 
Brought  awful  slaughter  to  a  close. 
The  fearful   scene  the  chief  surveyed 
With  indecision  and  with  pain; 
His   grenadiers   in   strife   arrayed 
Were    thrice    outnumbered     by    their    slain. 
He  turned    in   hopeless  quest  of   aid, 
And  saw  a  glittering  line  of  steel 
Approach  with  firmness  of  parade; 
Soon  cheers  he  heard  above  the  peal 
Of  myriad  guns  that  round  him  played. 
'Advance!"   he  cried    "and    still   advance 
While  stands  in  arms  a  single  foe." 
His  heroes  charged  for  sunny  France — 
With  bayonets   and   shining  lance 
They   swept   the   wide  and   red   plateau. 
'Tis  thus  in  life— we  oft  would  yield, 
WThen  hope  is  dim  and  woes  oppress— 
Disastrous  failure  we  confess. 
A  final  effort  sweeps  the  field- 
Victorious  joys  our  valor  bless. 


IDYLS   OF    BOHEMIA  271 

MK.MOKIAL  DAY 

To-day,   O  clarion,  sound 
No  weird  and  melancholy  strain. 
Let   artillery   shake   the   ground, 
And   sound,   O  trumpets,   in  disdain. 
Defiant  be  the  bugle's  note, 
And  high  aloft,  O  banners  float- 
Columbia's  most  heroic  slain 
( Their  spirits  have  not  passed  away ) 
Now  swiftly  marshal  once  again 
As   it'   in   onset's   dread   array, 
With  us  to  hail  this  sacred  day. 
Earth's  chief  republic  lives  again 
With  every  vile,  repulsive  stain 
Washed  by  their  gen'rous  blood  away. 
Let  thund'ring  guns  the  story  tell — 
In  Freedom's  cause,  on  stormy  main, 
Embattled  height  and  smoky  plain, 
The   Nation's   high-souled   heroes    fell. 
This  is  to  them  triumphal  day. 


A  TROPIC  MORN 

Wide  inlets  and  the  broad  lagoons  are  still, 

The  low  green  islands  wake  not  yet  with  sound. 

Tides  and  floods,  indigo-blue,  seaward  sweep, 

Where  utmost  calms  prevail,  and  fast  expand 

The  naked  beaches  clean  as  polished  gold. 

Beyond    the    misty  bay    volcanoes    loom, 

Their  lines  colossal   traced   in  heavens  blue. 

The  clouds  of  eve  are  fled,  the  stars  are  gone, 

And  rich  the  glowing  East  is  clad  in  hues, 

In   tints,   to   skies   of  colder  climes   unknown. 

Soon   bursts  the   Sun  upon  a  dazzled  world, 

Swift  mounting  through  etherial  skies, 

A  monarch!   fierce,  triumphant  and  ablaze. 

The  peaks,  amazed,  resign  their  purple  hue; 

Anon   the  coiling  vapors  slowly  soar 

Around  each  summit  bleak,  and  veil  it  quite. 

Now  pills*-  tlie1  shores,  the  earth  and  isles,  with  heat; 

Enraptured  birds  cleave  high  the  perfumed  air; 

Bright  serpents  coil,  unscared,  on  bush  and  plant; 

bathers  plunge  in  shady,  limpid  pools, 
-^ek  the  foamy  rush  of  ocean  surf. 
The  drowsy  plantains  wave  their  long  green  arms, 
Indolent  winds  just  move  the  listless  palms, 
And   Day — warm,  blushing  and   magnificent, 
With   pomps  regathered,  is  forth  again. 
Brown   senoritas   rove   in   shade   of   palm, 
Or  lounge  along  a  dazzling  beach 
Where  the  jasper  and  rich  opal  shine. 


SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

TO  MY  LAST  COIN 

"Who  loves  not  wine,  woman  and  song, 
Lives  a  fool  his  whole  life  long." 

The  best  of  friends  must  part.     'Tis  Fate's  decree. 

I've  parted  with  more  friends  than  I  can  count, 

Since  I  got  started   on  this  jamboree, 

And  yet  to  what  does  friendship  all  amount? 

'Tis  full  of  smiles,  of  jestings  debonair — 

Of  kind  and  chivalrous  address. 

'Tis  best  adapted  when  the  weather's  fair, 

But  not  when  vessels  labor  in  distress. 

A   miner   on  bright   California's   shore, 
Who  wore  a   belt   of  twenties  round   his   loin, 
Once  said  to  me:   "Your  best  friend  is  your  coin." 
And  so  I  think.     The  other  friends  are  good, 
(I'd  sadly  hate  to  be  misunderstood,) 
But  when  I  weep  for  friends  I  have  no  more, 
'Twill  be  for  friends  like  thee,  thou  shining  ore.   • 

Now  sole  remaining  friend,  prepare  to  go. 

Some  other  time  we'll  meet  again  perhaps. 

I  much  regret  that  I  must  treat  you  so, 

But  I  would  seat  me  by  those  other  chaps. 

I  need   just  now   a   foamy  glass   of  beer, 

At   which,   sometimes,    cold-water   people    sneer. 

I  would  somewhat  refresh  the  inner  man, 

Keep  off  the  snakes  and  cultivate  elan. 

I  saw  a  devil  ten  feet  high  last  night, 

And  ghosts  did  walk  my  chamber  through  and  through. 

Five  drinks  have  partly  failed  to  fix  me  right, 

So,  faithful  coin,  a  long,  a  sad  adieu. 


WHEEL-CHAIK  MONKEY-SHINES 

The  whole  world  gazed  in  mute  despair 

As  they  wheeled  him  out  in  open  air 

In  a   fancy  presidential  chair. 

St.  Peter  smiled  at  such  a  break, 

And  then  observed:    "He  takes  the  cake 

For   grand-stand   plays,    I    do   declare. 

His  illness,  boys,  is  all  a  fake." 

But   his   beautiful   words   and   doleful   air 

Put  a  blanket  over  the  Shipping  affair. 


FALLEN  CASTLES 

There's  no  use  mourning  what  you  might  have  done: 
Strive  hard  for  prizes  that  may  still  be  won. 


IPVI.S    OF    BOHEMIA  273 

TIIK   MONROE    IXKTRIXK 

[Written    in    1874.] 

O  Ruler  of  great  Colon's  world, 
Lift  algis   o'er   this    lovely   strand. 
No  despot  flag  be  here  unfurled. 
Its   nations  call  to   prouder  birth, 
And  peal  it  forth  to  ends  of  earth, 
With 'sword  of  might  in  mailed  hand — 
By   seas  of  blood   for   Freedom  shed 
On   countless   fields   at    thy    command — 
That  throne  or  kingdom   shall  not   stand, 
That    royal    power    shall    not   spread, 
Or   crown   descend   from   sceptred    sire, 
From  Polar  snows  to  Land  of  Fire. 
Where  dwells  the   mighty  American  Race 
For    alien    banners,    royal    reign, 
For  European   crown's  domain, 
For  throne  or    vassal   is   no  place. 


\VOLVKS 

If  I  might  realize  a  present  wish, 

Twould  be  to  be  cold-blooded  as  a  fish, 

A  sort  of  human  wolf  let  out  for  prey. 

No  matter  what  old-fashioned   people   say — 

Those  are  the  dogs  that  always  have  their  day. 

To  estimate  a  fellow  being's  need, 

How  much  a  victim  may  endure  to  bleed; 

Just  what  is  prudent,  what  is  safe  Indeed — 

This  is  their  highest  happiness  and  creed. 

Their  consciences  to  leather  shreds  have  worn, 

Cast-iron  smiles  their  visages  adorn, 

Proof  are  their  hides  to  shafts  of  human  scorn — 

Such  men,  like  us  great  poets,  must  be  born. 


TIIK   C HOICK   OF  BERMUDEZ 

Romanceful   thoughts  for  aye  repose 

Upon  thy  crest,  O  regal  rose. 

Thou  queen  in   beauty,   sweet  perfume, 

Of  all   the  floral  gems  that  bloom. 

When  rich  thy   royal  crimson   glows. 

A  thousand  annals  wake  of  strife, 

Of  chivalry,  of  lofty  life, 

Of  grand  or  lowly  lovers'  woes. 

When  mine  has  been  a  soldier's  doom, 

Strew  thou  red  roses  on  my  tomb. 


274  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

KEYEL  IN  LEOX 

[From  "Sun  Worship  Shores."  | 

Around  this  hall  our  band  align; 
Array  in  haste  the  festal  board 
Where  fearless  Walker  drew  the  sword 
To    reign   as    Nicaragua's    lord. 
The  scene  that  once  through  warfare  long, 
Resounded  with  disorder's  clang — 
Where  trumpets  wild   of  glory   sang, 
Where  drums  were  beat  and  bugles  rang, 
Shall  echo  now  with  festal  song. 
Sweet  music  peal!     Pour  lethean   wine 
Till  eyes  with  glow  of  rapture  shine. 
No   free  lance   bears  a  burden   long, 
The  minstrel's  woe  is  lost  in  song, 
And    eyes   replete  with    mournful    thought 
Are   swift   by   gay  temptations   caught. 
The  rose  that  lifts  its  gorgeous  head 
Hath   bloomed   from   dust  of   heroes   dead. 
The  flower   fair  we  idly  view, 
Hath   risen   from   gay   Beauty's  tear; 
The   laurel   wreath  we   value   dear, 
Hath  drank   of  human  blood  like  dew. 

0  wrest  from  life,  ere  all  is  fled, 
Whate'er  of  joy  may  charm  us  here. 
Ay,  banish  grief  to  deserts  far — 

In  Spanish  wine's  red  wave  renew 
Defiance  of  the  cares  we  rue. 
This  life  is  but  a  scene  of  war: 
Nowhere  beneath  fair  heavens  blue 
Is  found  the  lone  and  happy  spot 
Where  grim  disasters  visit  not. 
Now  each  who  is  depressed  and  sad 
Shall  well   the   direful   cause   reveal. 
Rich  wine  shall  make  his  spirit  glad, 
And  balm  of  love  his  wound  shall  heal. 

1  bid  you  in  rich  golden  wine 
Your  souls  infuse  with  peace  divine. 
Honduras  gales,  o'er  billows  'cool, 
Sigh  pa?ans  to  sweet  Folly's  rule. 
The  seas  of  blue,  the  stars  of  fire, 

But  laugh  to  scorn  proud  Man's  desire. 

'Tis  well  to  bid  to  care  adieu, 

And  revel  with  Fortuna's  crew. 

If  life  be  dull  we'll  make  it  gay; 

If  cares   oppress   they   must  away; 

If  winsome  Glory  holds  aloof, 

She   puts  our  courage   to   the  proof. 

Pour  lethean  wine — we'll  revel  while 

This  haughty  queen  disdains  to  smile. 


1  I)  VLS    OF    BOH  KM  I  A  275 

An  olden  free  lance  creed  be  taught — 
The  roses  wear  while  winds  are  warm; 
Have  lawless  bliss  from  any  lot, 
Nor  furl  fair  sails  from  any  storm. 


TIIK  CAVALIER'S  REGRET 

Free   lances   wild,   when   once   the   word 
Is  said  that  binds  two  souls  as  one, 
Cast  by  the  harp  and  sacred  sword — 
The  nomad   knight's  career   is  done. 
Romance  is  past,  and  earth  no  more 
A  rose  field   fair  afar  expands; 
For    aye    are    gone    the    wonderlands 
Delighted    eyes    did    once    explore, 
Nor   longings  for   adventure  wild 
Dare   thrill   the  breast   of  Fancy's   child. 
No  flowers  bloom,  no  groves  expand; 
No  vistas   of   exchanted   land 
Reward  his  sad,  repentant  gaze; 
No  seas  lift  up  their  billowrs  white 
To    flash    beneath    a    golden    light, 
Nor  awful  sheen  of  Glory's  blaze 
Illumes   these   vile,    ignoble   ways. 
An  eagle's  wings,  in  fearless  might, 
Will  stretch  no  more  for  boundless  flight 
Klysian  day  hath  reached  its  night — 
Morose   Despair   henceforth   must   reign. 


TIIK  WORLD'S  WAV 

Most  men  are  used  as  old  post  horses  are — 
No  matter  if  they  founder,  so  our  friend 
With  speed  and  ease  attains  his  journey's-  end. 
Meanwhile,  the  driver  puffs  a  good  cigar. 


HYMN  OF  TIIK  IIOMK  SEEKER 

There's  a  land   that   is  warmer  than   fhis, 

Where    land-grabbers    retire 

In   bedrooms  of  fire, 

And  dragons  stand  up  on  their  long  tails  and  hiss; 

Where    unscrupulous    knaves 

And   political   slaves 

Float  round  on  red  billows  that  sizzle  and  siss. 

O  send  the  whole  gang, 

With  uproar  and  bang, 

To  simmer  and  bake  in  that  dreadful  abyss. 


276  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 


IX  THE  TRENCHES 

While  Woodrow  howls  in  language  stern 
'Thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  burn, 
The  dough-boy  hears  with  unconcern. 
He  hopes  affairs  will  take  a  turn. 


WYOMING  HILLS 

[Written  in   1870.1 

When  flood-tides  of  Fortune  have   swept   me  afar, 
Have  wafted  my  bark  to  lands  of  the  Sun, 

O  leave  the  fair  gates  of  Mem'ry  ajar, 
And  think,   O  think  of  the  wandering  one. 

While  strangers  and  foes  encompass  me  then, 
And  the  sad  heart  mourns  its  happier  day, 

O  waste  you  a  thought  for  times  that  have  been — 
And  a  thought  for  the  perils  that  darken  my  way. 

When  powers  in  arms  loom  dark  on  our  path, 
And  hosts  embattled  are  gathering  near, 

O.  little   I'll   reck   their   turbulent    wrath, 

While  pondering  on  one  remembered  and  dear. 

When  War's  deep  echo,  artillery's  crash, 

Resound  o'er  the  plains  they  tarnish  with  gore; 

When  columns  that  scorn  the  cannon's  quick  flash, 
Their   volleys   of  death   incessantly   pour; 

When  carnage  o'erspreads  the  martial  scenes  red, 
And  valleys  re-echo  with  battle's  wild  roar, 

How  sweet  to  recall  the  days  that  are  fled — 
Halcyon  days  we'll  number  no  more. 

When  cheers  of  triumph  float  up  to  the  sky, 
Proclaiming   the    foe's   disaster   and    shame, 

Some  spirit  of  love  in  brightness  will  fly, 
To  fling  at  thy  feet  my  laurels  of  fame. 


A  DAY  ICONOCLASTIC,  1920 

On  a  chill  November  day 
Tumulty    waved    the    scribes    away. 
With  his  hand  o'er  head, 
In  whispers  he  said: 
"He  has  nothing  to  say — nothing  to  say!" 


IDYLS   OF    BOHEMIA  277 

P.RITISII  TROOPS  IN  NICARAGUA— 1895 

[See  Prose  Addenda.] 

The   corsair   flag  of   England   flies 
Around   our  shores  in  haughty  threat. 
IT    flaunts   beneath  our   native   skies, 
l'l>on    our    gales    its    colors    fret; 
And  England's  castles  o'er  us  rise, 
Insulting  to  Columbia's  wave. 
Though  mighty  fleets  our  fury  brave, 
The    blood   of   Concord    courses   yet. 
In   savage  greed  of  Norman  pride, 
Britannia's    navies   past   us   ride, 
To  rob  the  shores  that  helpless  lie, 
As  Morgan  robbed  in  days  gone  by, 
While    Prudence   in  our  council   hall 
With   placid    smile   regards   it   all, 
But  fires  of  hate  that  smoulder  low. 
.May  blaze  again  for  Freedom's  foe, 
And  peal  of   arms  and  roar  of  war 
Resound  o'er  continents  afar. 
The  task  that  once  was  barely  done 
May  be  by    stronger  hands  begun. 
Ere  Star  of  Empire  change  its  course, 
The  march  that  failed,  to  far  Quebec, 
May  be  renewed  with  vaster  force 
That  royal  power  will  not  check. 
For   England   was  our  fathers'  foe, 
Our  secret  foe  is  P^ngland  yet. 
Her  hateful  friendship  is  a  snare. 
If  now  the  sun  may  never  set 
Upon  her  plundered  empire  wide, 
Let  her  curtail  her  Norman  pride, 
And  have  her  fleets  remotely  ride, 
Or  storms  will   range  our   native  air. 


A    YOrTIIFTL  DKFKAT 

OVi  shadowed  by  a  black  defeat 

In    utter  woe   I   sit   me   down, 

A  ruthless   horde   beneath   their  feet 

Have  crushed,  alas!    my  golden  crown. 

A  sceptre    I    was   born   to   sway 

Is   broke,   dishonored,  cast  away, 

And    all    my    dreams — once    dazzling   bright — 

Have   vanished    as   the   stars   of   night 

Recede    before   the    beams   of  day. 


278  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

MY  NOBLE  SIRE 

He  made  his  will  with  utmost  care, 

And  changed  it  oft,  and  got  it  right. 

To  all  the  rest  he  gave  a  share. 

To  me  he  gave  a  slight. 

For  fear  his  cash  would  soon  be  spent 

For  booze  and   godless  merriment, 

To  me  he  left  not  one  red  cent. 

Ancestral    worship   does   not   seem 

To  me  a  choice  poetic  theme. 

My  thoughts  that  way  are  not  much  bent. 

Upon  his  name  I  put  a  blot. 

I  owe  my  predecessor  naught. 

Like    Ivanhoe,    (the   lawyers   write), 

I'm  a  disinherited  knight. 

Romantic  fate!    unpleasant   quite 

When  coin  is  scarce  and  money  tight. 

While  solemn  heirs  their  ducats  roll, 

I'll    double-cross    my    totem    pole. 

Patriarchal    spite   be   d — d. 

By  no  man's  rules  will  I  be  calmed. 

Until   my  body  is  embalmed 

My  course  thru  life  will  still  be  slammed— 

And  rammed — and  jammed.     Selah! 


THE  SUN  FLOWER  STATE 

This  prairie  land  a  border  war  made  free. 

I  gaze  upon  its  happy  plains  with  pride. 

Across  them  once  I  saw  the  savage  ride — 

I  truced  with  bands  of  painted  chivalry. 

All  earth  is  crowded  now — shall  some  wild  horde 

Roam  o'er  domains  where  millions  might  abide? 

Let  airy  sentiment  be  cast  aside — 

The  desert  blossom,  guarded  by  the  sword. 


SERPENT  IN  THE  GARDEN 

Where's    the    guy    that    Heaven    annoints 

To   gather   up   the   scattered   joints 

Of   the    famous    reptile,    Fourteen    Points? 


TEMPUS  FUG  IT 

'Tis  well  to  scheme  and  closely  plan, 
For   'Time  and   Tide  wait  for  no  man. 


I  DYLS   OF    BOHEMIA  279 


WAR  WHOOP  OF  THE  HOOK  MAX 

Away   with   immorality,   I   say; 

No  publisher  can  make  it   pay. 

Let  not  these  rhymesters  be  so  brash; 

Plain  common  sense  has  had  its  day. 

Book  buyers  now,  nine  times  in  ten — 

Masculine  women  and  feminine  men, 

Weak-minded  folks — want  only  trash. 

We  publishers  want  only  cash. 

Too  well  we  know  who's  who  and  what's  what. 

American    Idiots    must   have   rot — 

Hasty,  silly,  sentimental  stuff 

In  slovenly  diction,  language  tough. 

Yea,  it's  gush,  slush,  visionary  rot 

That  brings   us   money  on  the  spot. 

Jingle,   twaddle,    bunk!    Slush!     . 

Gush,   mush,   and   yet  more   gush; 

With  a  momentary  hush 

This  brings  the  money  with  a  rush. 

It's   what   the   people   want. 

This   other   stuff — away!    avaunt! 

It's  not  adapted  for  this  age 

Of  wooden  heads  and  every  sort  of  cant. 

Give  us  gush,  slush,  visionary  rant. 

When  common  sense  gets  on  a  page, 

It  puts  the  book  men  in  a  rage. 


A   TROPIC  MADRIGAL 

'I  am  dark  but  comely,  O  daughters  of  Jerusalem. 

It'  wintry  snows  of  my  far  clime 
Might  shame  thy  hue,  O  tropic  maid, 
Beneath  the  boughs  of  this  green  lime, 
With  Ocean's  waves  slow  sounding  time 
Along  the  cliffs,  with  sullen  chime, 
Repine   thou   not.     Let   Sorrow's   shade 
Dim    ruder   brows,    in    colder   years, 
When  calmer  thought  confers  relief- 
Youth  is  no  time  for  idle  tears, 
A  scene  like  this  no  place  for  grief. 

Gaze  out  upon  the  purple  deep, 
Resplendent  with  celestial  beams. 
A   realm   of  splendor  now   it  seems; 
Its  mighty  storms  are  all  asleep. 
And  on  its  breast  the  sunset  streams 
As  though  the  skies  no  more  could  keep 
Their  garnered   wealth   of  liquid   gold. 
What  pageantries  thine  eyes  behold! 


280  SONGS    OF    A  -MAN    WHO    FAILED 

See   all   the   heavens    far   unrolled, 

As  sacred  annals  have  foretold 

All   earth   shall   see  one  potent  day. 

See  how  the  torn  clouds  drift  away, 

Recoiling  from   the   piercing   rays — 

Intensity    of   sunset    blaze — 

And  catching  tints  and  gorgeous  hues 

That  to  the  very   waves  infuse 

The  air  with  red  magnificence. 

Mark  how  the  spray,  white  as  the  tents 

Of  some  vast  host,  leaps  up  to  kiss 

The  glories  lavished  on  the  air, 

But  ere  it  falls  to  seethe  and  hiss 

In  Ocean's  dark  and  deep  abyss, 

Far  from  the  Sun's  incessant  glare, 

It  floats  a  rainbow  in  the  air, 

So  panoplied  in»  wondrous  dyes 

It  seems  an  atom  of  the  skies, 

A  fragment  of  some  golden  land 

Flung  down  to  earth  by  angel  hand. 

Is  this  not  fair?    O  grand  the  sea 

That   leaves    unceasing   this   bright   shore, 

And    soft   the   winds   that   wander   free 

From  wastes  of  foam  where  tempests  roar 

To  these  green  isles,  henceforth  to  be 

Soft    bearers    of    all    sweet    perfume 

Caught  up  from  where  rich  flowers  bloom; 

From  where  the  groves  of  orange  spread, 

Whose  blossoms  fill   the  boughs  o'erhead, 

Or  strew  the  soil  like  scattered  snow. 

And   grand  the  peaks  so  still  and  blue, 

That  cast  their  shades  on  earth  below 

Ere  yet  fair  Night  hath  dared  renew 

Her  brilliant  reign,  or  proudly  hang 

Her  glowing  Cross  in  southern  sky.  / 

And  sterner  than  some  trumpet's  clang, 

And  sadder  than  some  heart's  deep  sigh, 

The  thund'ring  surge  fierce  springs  and  breaks 

Against  the   land's   impassive   wall 

With  smothered  moan.     The  soul  awakes 

To  life   renewed  at  its  wild  call. 

There  is  a  cadence  in   its  fall, 

A    mournfulness   that    is    not    drear, 

That  sweeeps  like  music  on  the  ear. 

Rave,  rave,  wild  waters  in  delight, 

I  glory  in  your  sullen  power; 

Your  high  contempt  of  human  might, 

Defiant  force  and  robings  white 

Of  beauty  dread,  more  winsome  far 

Than  woman  in  her  rarest  hour. 

O,  who  can  stay  you?     Who  can  bar 

Your  headlong  tides,  when  mortals  cower, 


[DYLS    OF    Ko  11  I-  M  1  A  '  281 

In  pallid  awe,  e'en  at  your  voice? 
Rejoice,    O   tameless    floods,   rejoice! 
Speak    till    the   bending   heavens   hear, 
Send  forth  afar  terrific  sounds; 
Consume   the   Land's  now  trembling  walls, 
For  .Man  is  but.  the  worm  that  crawls 
In  the  Sun's  glare  for  a  brief  day, 
Hut  you   endure,  wild  waves,  alway; 
Hm-ircled  earth  denotes  your  bounds. 


DANIKL   HOONK 

A  quaint  old  town,  named  for  a  Spanish  king, 
\Ylim  Spain's  dominion  stretched  unbroken  from 
The  C'arib  seas  to  Minnesota  snows. 

The  convent  bells  fling  music  to  the   stars. 
How    fair    the    scene    around    this    flow'ry    height. 
A  brilliant   moon  o'erhangs  a  placid   world. 
Above  alluvial   lands  a  snowy  mist 
Is  motionless,  veiling  fields  of  rustling  maize 
And  dark,  imperial  groves  of  oak. 
Lights  twinkle  in  a  thousand  rural  homes; 
The  turbulent   Missouri  hastens  by. 
Last    eve    I    praised   its   glist'ning  tides, 
Speeding  on  with  such  resistless  force. 
A  lady,  gentle-voiced — of  many  years — 
In  silent  thought  a  while  remained,  then  spoke: 
'I   cannot  gaze  upon  that  cruel  flood," 
She  said,  "except  with  tears,  or  suffocating  pain. 
For  those  remorseless  tides  drew  down  to  death 
A  joyous,  happy  youth  who  was  my  son." 
Then  ceased  the  stream  to  look  so  fair — 
Twas  fierce  and  wild,  imbued  with  fiendish  life. 

Some  leagues  away,   in  yonder   wood. 

Daniel  Boone,  the  famed  hunter,  built  his  home. 

rpon    Kentucky's  dark  and   bloody  ground 

His  noble  manhood  neared  a  gloomy  close. 

From  youth  to  hoary  age  his  valiant   arm 

Had  waged  unceasing  war  with  savage  foes. 

Wide  realms  he  gave  to  other  men  to  till. 

Homes,    farms,   towns,   cities,   capitals 

Arose  along  the  rugged  pathway  he  had  trod. 

The  jungle  and   morass  became  the  field 

Where  Ceres  poured  the  treasures  of  her  horn. 

Where  stood   the  torture  stake  the  church  arose; 

Th"   war  whoop  died  away  upon  the  air. 

And  notes  of  peace  and  joy  went  forth  instead. 

Where   squalid   savagery  did  once   infest. 


282  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Civilization   made   her   regal   home. 

Then  robber  Law  despoiled  the  gray-haired  man — 

Exiled  him  to  the  wilderness  »again. 

He   left   the    regions    that   his   arms   had   won, 

His  heartless  countrymen  he  left  behind, 

And   here   Spain's  honored   vassal   he   became, 

With  lands — ay,  broad  ones,  too — assigned  to  him. 

Remote   from    populous   haunts    he   dwelt, 

With   flocks   and   herds  and   kinsmen   true, 

Like  a  princely   patriarch  of  Eld. 

The  pen   of  Byron  wrote  high   words  of   him, 

And  History  gives  his  name  to  other  times. 


EVOLUTION  OF  A  POEM 

On  my  thirty-fifth  birthday  I  wrote: 

A   Caesar's  crown  at  thirty-five, 
Encircled   proud    Napoleon's   brow. 
That   god   of   war  did   fiercely   strive, 
But  e'en  to  him  all  would  not  bow. 

Alone,  afar,   my  shallop  wends 
In  quest  of  Fame's  immortal  shore; 
The  whirlwind  still  the  ocean  rends, 
And  foam-white  breakers  leap  and  roar; 
The  lightning  o'er  the  ocean  sends 
Its   flames   afar — dread  torrents   pour; 
No  gentle  god  my  bark  defends — 
I'll  sail  and  sail  till  storms  are  o'er. 

Let  wide  disaster  sweep  the  seas, 
The  stars  be  hid  and  suns  be  gone; 
Let  wildest  gales  their  frenzy  please, 
And  blackest  gulfs  in  menace  yawn; 
Deep   thunders   fright  the  trembling  seas, 
And    rolling   clouds   obscure   the  dawn; 
I'll   turn    not   back   for    foes   like    these — 
My  course  is  on  and  on  and  on. 

My  nameless  flag  still  streams  on  high, 
And  there  shall  stream  in  regal  pride, 
Defiant  of  a  stormy  sky 
That   canopies  a  raging  tide. 
Let   Fury   rend  an  angry  main, 
And  Fate  or  Fortune — Chance,  deride; 
A  will  of  steel  shall  yet  decide, 
And   solve  at   last   Life's  mysteries, 
And  heart  of  oak  the  test  abide; 
I'll  sail  across  these  hostile  seas 
And  yet  my  goal  in  triumph  gain. 


I  I)  VI.S    OF    BOH  KM  I  A  283 

What   hand  can  mar  men's  destinies 
Who  banish  fear  and  smile  at  pain? 
Though  every  hope  and  chance  is  gone, 
My    course    is   on — and    on — and    on. 

A  few  years  later,  while  making  up  a  manuscript  of  poems 
to  be  vainly  offered  to  eastern  publishers,  I  decided  that  these 
lines  were  probably  too  personal  to  be  of  interest  to  the  aver- 
age reader.  As  I  had  many  Spanish-American  poems,  1 
transformed  the  production  into 


COU'MHrs   IN    A  STORM 

Alone — afar — my   shallops   wend 
In  quest  of  India's  balmy  shore. 
Stupendous  gales  the  ocean  rend, 
And  foam-white  breakers  leap  and  roar; 
The  lightnings  o'er  the  ocean  send 
Their  flames  afar;    dread  torrents  pour; 
O  saints  of  love  our  barks  defend — 
We  still  sail  on  for  India  shore. 

Some  fell  disaster  sweeps  the  seas, 
And  all   the  faithful  stars  are  gone; 
Ferocious   gales   their  frenzy    please, 
Abyssmal  deeps  in  menace  yawn, 
Loud  thunders  peal  o'er  foreign  seas. 
And   ebon   clouds   obscure   the   dawn — 
O   knights,  defy   such   foes  as  these; 
For    India  shore,    O  still    on. 

Proud   Isabel!   whose  gentle  eye 
Gave  hope  to  me — that  men  denied; 
Yea,  laughed  my  lofty  dreams  aside — 
Thy  sacred  flag  still  streams  on  high, 
And  there  shall  stream  in  regal  pride, 
Defiant  of  a  stormy   sky 
That   wars  a  seething  ocean's  tide. 
O  Nature,  pour  thy   noisy  tears, 
With  mad   .Kolus  in  thy  train — 
I've  staked  a  life's  wild  hopes  and  fears 
Amid  this  weird  Atlanta  main. 
Come  boreal   gale   or  spicy  breeze, 
Though  calms  prevail  or  tumults  reign, 
I'll   sail  across  the  stormy  seas 
And  yet  the   shores  of    Indus  gain. 
O  knights  defy  such  foes  as  these, 
For  angels  guide  us  o'er  the  main. 

From   these  two  versions  emanated  Joaquin   Miller's  much 
vaunted    "Voyage    Of   Columbus." 


284  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

PKIVUT   PEXSHUX   BILL 

[See  Prose  Addenda.] 

Come  all  you  good  deserters 
Who  did  not  like  to  kill; 
I'll  sing  for  you  a  ditty, 
And  sing  it  with  a  will. 
Tis  all  about  a  friend  of  yours 
Called  Privut  Penshun  Bill. 

He  was  a  humble  sojer  once — 

They  only  called  him  Bill, 

But  when  he  rose  to  have  good-  clothes, 

To  smoke  seegars  and  drink  his  fill, 

They   called   him    Penshun   Bill; 

O,   yes,    they   called    him 

Privut  Penshun   Bill — 

Gunnel    Privut    Penshun    Bill. 

He    lives   in    Congress   City, 
Way  up  upon  the  hill. 
Don't  you    forget — he   has   his   booze! 
You'd  think  he  owned  a   still. 
In  helping  out  the  country's  will, 
He  caught  a  chronic  thirst. 
It  makes  him  drink. 
Sometimes  you'd   think 
That  Bill  would  surely  burst. 
No    more    they    call    him    Bill, 
Just  only  Bill — not  now,  you  know. 
They  call  him  Privut  Penshun  Bill- 
Gunnel  Privut  Penshun  Bill. 

• 

He  has  no  use  for  dirty  chumps 

That  went  to  war  to  stay — 

But  loves  the  good  deserters 

Who  ran  away  on  battle  day — 

O  yes,  who  ran  away 

To  Podunk  or  to  Kanaday, 

Until  the  war  was  past; 

Who  ran  away  to  shun  affray, 

But  all  got  home  at  last; 

Came  smiling  home,  no  more  to  roam, 

When  that  old  war  was  past. 

Hooray  for  the  old  flag! 

And  likewise  shout  for  Bill. 

If  in   trouble  write 

To  Privut  Penshun  Bill. 

He'll  put  you  on  the  golden  track, 

And  ope  for  you  the  public  till; 

He'll  rip  for  you  the  money  sack, 


I  I)  V  I.S    OK    BO  I!  KM  I  A  285 

He'll  cover   up  your  ugly  breaks, 
And  straighten  out  each  crooked  line. 
A  grateful   country   will   reward; 
Just  write  to  Privut  Penshun  Bill. 
He'll  fix  your  needed  papers  fine. 
There's   none   remembers  all  events 
When  millions  wandered  to  and  fro. 
Your  health  is  bad,  me  bully  boy — 
You   wrecked   it   fifty  years  ago. 
Just  write  to  Privut   Penshun  Bill. 
If  only  once  you  wore  a  coat, 
He'll  put    you   at   the    public    till. 
Hooray  for  the  old  flag! 
And  likewise  shout  for  Bill. 

We  love  our  country — yes  we  do! 
We  love  its  legal  tender,  too — 
Its  tender  notes,  its  silver,  gold. 
Ah!   Ugh!   Ah!   Ugh!    I  guess  we  do, 
But  most  of  all,  me  boys, 
We  love  our  Privut  Penshun  Bill. 
They   call   us    penshun-leeches   now, 
But  never  mind.     We  have  a  friend — 
A  loyal,    patriotic   friend — 
In  Privut  Penshun  Bill. 


A   DKSKRT   MARTYR 

'I   built   this   lonely   cabin    here,"   he   said, 
'To  hide   away   from   all   the   human   race. 
I  had  a  wife  whose  wavy  tresses   red 
Shone   like  an  aureola   round   her  head. 
She  had   a   dainty   form,  a  bonnie  race, 
And  hazel  eyes,  and,  stranger,  she  was  young; 
She  was   ambition,   energy   and   grace, 
But,   ah!    she   had   a   temper  and   a  tongue. 
I    bore  with   her   two  melancholy   years — 
Thi'ii   left   her  to  her  conscience  and   her  tears. 
It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone, 
And  so,  in  time,   I  wooed  another  wife. 
Alas!    my   honeymoon    was    barely   gone 
Before  the   new  one   girded   armor   on 
To   wreck   the  fabric   of  our  wedded   life. 
She  proved  to  be  a  feminine  cyclone, 
A    Tearing  tempest  of  domestic  strife, 
A  thunder  storm  of  Hymen's  torrid   zone. 
I  often  sighed  to  bring  my   No.   1 
Into  that  home  of  battles  and  of  spats, 
And  see  the  pair,  like  two  Kilkenny  cats. 
Obtain  their  fill  of  pugilistic  fun. 


286  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

But  why   dwell  on   unhappy  past  events? 
With  ruined   hopes  I   soon   departed   thence. 
Bad  luck  pursued — as  soon  as  I  was  free, 
The  darts  of  Cupid  flew  my  heart  around. 
With  solemn  fear,  with  deep  regret,  1  found 
A  woman  had  resolved  to  marry  me. 
She  very  soon  became  my  No.  3. 
Our    honeymoon    flew   by    delightfully, 
But  earthly  happiness  will  never  last. 
Ere  yet  we  realize  our  weighty  loss, 
Our  sunny  days,  our  joys,  are  in  the  past. 
The  prizes  that  we  draw  are  only  dross. 
My  dame  aspired,  with  many  haughty  airs, 
To  wield  the  sceptre  of  our  home  affairs. 
What  woes   I  had   I   think  you  may  surmise. 
One  day  her  death  occasioned  some  surprise. 
As  I  appeared  not  over  much  to  grieve, 
My  neighbors  told  me  that  I'd  better  leave. 
I  came  out  here  where  females  don't  abound, 
And  reared  a  cabin  on  this  desert  ground. 
The  land  is  poor — it  won't  produce  at  all, 
But  here  I'm  safe  from  lovely  Woman's  wiles. 
There's  not  a  dame  around  in  forty  miles. 
A  woman  led  to  father  Adam's  fall — 
I've  had  my  final  matrimonial  brawl." 

"Why   don't   you   pollywog?"    I   dryly   said. 

"Go  join  the  Mormon  crew,  and  have  a  pair 
Of  turtle  doves.     While  they  are  pulling  hair, 
You'll  reign  supreme  as  matrimonial  head." 

"No!   No!   I've  had  enough  of  Hymen's  cheer," 
He  said.    "Don't  mention  that  I'm  living  here. 


MY  OWN  MYSTERY 

Amid   the   wreck   of   ruined   dreams   I   sit — 

I  sadly   ponder  on    disastrous    grief. 

I  do  not  weep,  for  that  were  vain,  nor  rail 

With  passionate  cry  at  pitiless  Fate. 

I    only    think.      I    coldly    ask    myself, 

How  came  all  this  about?     I  brood  alone, 

To  gaze  far  back  o'er  dark  and  gloomy  years, 

And  through  them  trace  the  thin  thread  of  my  doom. 

I  see   no  \vork   or  semblance  of  mere  chance, 

But  note  the  cunning  skill  of  heartless   Fate. 

This  was  to  be,  and  more,  alas!    it  is. 

Some   subtle   problems   of    my   brief    career, 

That    oft    have    vexed    my    will,    I've    sternly    solved. 

I   have   unloosed   my   force, 

And   most  formidable  barriers  crossed. 

This  is  a  thing  I  find  that  baffles  me. 


I  I)  VI.S    OF    BOH  KM  I  A  287 

SPANISH    RAPACITY 

[The  rebuke  of  Las  Casas.  I 

O  millions  die  that  few   may  live. 

Is   glory   but  a   robber's   deed? 

What    millions   weep   that  Spain   may   thrive, 

Her   fleets   bear  bullion   o'er  the  waves. 

In  quarry,  mine,  a  myriad  slaves 

Give   up  their  lives   to   Spanish   greed. 

Fell    demons    fan    this    craze    for    gold. 

The   land  is  but  a  slaughter  fold, 

A  bloody  pen,  where  gore  is  poured 

In  purple  streams  by  War's  red  sword, 

Before  the   shrines   of   gods  of  gold. 

This  ore   inspires   an   awful   thirst 

The  floods  of  Indus  would   not  quell. 

Who  strives   with   manly   aim   at   first 

Grows  wild  as  myrmidons  of  Hell. 

In   vain  some  Spanish  hearts  rebel 

At  cruel,  foul,  atrocious  wrong. 

No  sacred  scene  is  holy  long. 

Rapacious   clans   go   riding   past, 

With  hopes  and   lives   upon  a  cast — 

Ali  spoil  of  earth  is  for   the  strong. 

As  quaffs  a   poor,   unhappy   soul 

From    out   the   seas's   repulsive   tide, 

Where  briny    deeps    derisive    roll — 

Where  stars  and  wave  the  scene  divide — 

And  only  quaffs  to  breed  a  thirst 

That  burns  him  like  imprisoned  fire, 

So  yellow   gold — that  ore  accurst 

Inflames   the   votary's  desire; 

His   greed    inspires,    till    men    who   gain 

A    ruined    race's   golden    store, 

Brood  sullenly,  with  greed  insane, 

Then  hasten  forth  to  slay  for  more. 

Could  some  vile  wizard  art   unfold 

A    chirk    Hell's-method   mode   of   gain — 

Some    plan    born    in    a    demon's    brain 

To  smelt  this  ore  from  human  pain — 

They'd   pour  the  blood   of  man  to  gold; 

Ay.  '  kill    till    ships    upon    the    main 

No    more   accursed    ore    would    hold. 

Alas!     that    Colon    e'er    was    born — 

On   sons   of    Suain    I    heap   my   scorn. 


MEMORY 

To  deeply  think  would   be  to  weep — 
So   let   that   savage    tiger    sleep. 


288  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

ODE 

To  a  shark  that  cruised   around   the  Pacific  Mail  steamer 
"Costa  Rica,"  in  the  harbor  of  Champerico,  Guatemala,  1874. 

Tremendous   shark! 

That  keepeth   dark 
Abaft  the  "Costa  Rica's"   stern, 
Dost   thou   thy   daily   rations  earn 
By  hanging   round  with   well-peeled   eye, 
With   fins    erect   and   tail   awry, 
To   snake    in   all   the  poor  galoots — 
(Their  breeches,  buckles,  hats  and  boots; 
Their  bodies,  limbs,  and  heads  and  necks) 
That  tumble  off  our  vessel's  decks 
Into   the   blue   and   boundless   main, 
And    can't   alas!    get    back   again? 
Is  this  thy  mission,  dreadful  fish? 

Say! 

Is  Man,  devoured  rare,  the  dish 
Thou  dost  prefer  on  which  to  dine, 
Above   all   others   in   thy   line? 
What  barbecue  and  strange  festivity, 

0  gormand  of  the  salty  sea! 

Whence  come  thy  lightning  moves,  alertness,  mighty 

strength? 

Thy  many  feet  of  awful  length, 
And  glossy  hide  as  tough  as  army  beef? 
Thy  molars  ranged  in  bold   relief 
On  either  side   a  massive  jaw? 
Hath  come  of   eating  people   raw? 

Say! 

Knowest   thou   not   the   moral    law 
Forbids    such    provender    for    prey? 
Dost    thou    delight    to    gnash    and    slay 
From   wantonness,    or   dost   regret 
That    evil    circumstances   bid   thee   sin? 
Dost  say,  on  snatching  victim  from  the  wet, 
"He  was  a  stranger  and  I  took  him  in?" 
Hast  thou  a  conscience,  monster  dread? 

1  rather  think  no  pains   disturb 
Thy  peace  of  mind,  or  ever  curb 
Thy   lustful    taste   for   human   blood, 
Rapacious  rover  of  the  flood. 

Hast  thou  a  stomach?     Ah,  too  well 

We  know  thou  hast!    What  tales  they  tell — 

These   sailor   men — of  thy   red   deeds! 

On  what  strange  meat  our  Caesar  feeds 

We  know  too  well. 
How  often  have  we  heard  it  said 
Thou  canst  digest,  as  well  as  bread, 
All  kinds  of  mundane  stuff,  from  horses'  tails 


MRS.  JOAQUIN  MILLER 

This  lady,  the  poet's  first  wife,  claimed  to  have  written  many  descriptive 
passages  in  the  "Songs  Of  the  Sierras,"  and  to  have  assisted  in  the  revis- 
ion of  the  whole  book.  Her  former  neighbors  at  Eugene  City,  Oregon, 
circulated  a  similar  statement.  The  photo  from  which  this  picture  is  made 
bears  date  in  her  own  handwriting  of  December  10,  1872.  Appended  are 
these  lines:  "Behold,  there  is  more  joy  in  my  shadow  than  in  my  heart." 


I  n  YLS    OF    HO  HEM  I  A  289 

To  ancient    mariners  and   kegs  of  nails. 
Why   should  such  hideous  monsters  be, 
Their  boarding-house  the  whole  deep  sea? 

Gormandizer  rash, 

Hast  ever  tackled  ocean  hash? 
A  motley  dish  of  mystery 
Round  which  we  mortals  congregate 
So   oft,   nor  ever  penetrate 

Its   secrets  dire? 

Wouldst   thou   expire 
If  many  tons  of  this  were  crammed 
Into  thy  throat,  and  then  were  rammed 
Some  10  or  20  feet  still  further  down? 
Though  thou  shouldst  do  thy  level  best, 
Thinkst  thou,  O  shark,  thou  couldst  digest 
This  standard   article  of   any   town? 

Terrific    shark! 

"Why  skirmish  round  our  gallant  bark, 

Appalling    passengers    and    crew? 

Art   seeking   for   an   interview 

With  -some  of  us,  or  taking  notes 

On  everything  around  that  floats, 

And    wondering   how   it   will   do 

For  those   immense,   capacious  throats 

Thy   tribe   have   used   these   many   years? 

Art  ever   moved  by   mortal  tears? 

Could  any  plea  thy  heart  instill 

With  tender  touch  of  Pity's  thrill? 

Methinks  all  flesh  to  thee  appears 

A  proper  grist  for  thy  great  mill. 

How   long  in   ocean's  depths    hast  wallowed? 

Art  thou   the   fish   that  Jonah  swallowed? 
[The  vessel  gave  a  sudden   lurch,   and   the   bard  fell  over- 
board.    Horrible   to    relate,   the   shark   snapped   him   up    in   a 
moment.  1 


TIIK  ('HOICK  WK  MA'DK 

Which  pleases  most  the  restless  human  heart, 
Proud   Nature's  guise  or  noble  works  of  art? 
Look  far  away  at  Shasta's  tow'ring  peak — 
What  fairer  view  would  moody  rover  seek? 

"The  mount's  all  right,  my  friend— its  upper  part. 
That  well  dressed  lady  there  I  call  a  work  of  art. 
You  take  the  mountain  summit  over  there — 
I'll   homage  pay   unto  the  lady   fair." 
19 


290  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

ELEGY  IN  A   CITY   GRAVEYARD 

"Bacchus  drowns  more  men  than  Neptune." 

Shrine    of   greatness!     (ne'er   attained), 
Of  brilliant  hopes!    (that  slowly  waned), 
Of    dazzling    summits!     (never    gained). 
Booze-fighters  brave  await  the   blast 
Of   Gabriel's   trumpet   horn; 
They  did  their  best,  but  fell  at  last 
Before   John  Barleycorn. 
Weep,  brothers,  weep — with  anguish  when 
We  sing  the  dirge:   "It  Might  Have  Been." 
Statesmen,   heroes,    moulder   here; 
Thinkers,   singers,  lovers  of  good  cheer — 
To   sorrows   and    ill   fortune  born; 
Sons  of  Belial — of  melody  and  rhyme; 
Each  wandered   off  before  his  time. 
View   not  his   tomb   with   idle   scorn; 
He'll   wake  on   Resurrection   morn. 


TO  AN  OLD  SWEETHEART 

0,  you  have  vanished   from  the  world, 
And   we   shall   meet,    O   never   more! 
Where  is  that  sweet  and  lissome  girl 
Whose  voice  to  me,  in  years  of  yore, 
Was    Heaven's    music    in    the    air? 
Whose  beauteous  form   Love's  impress  bore? 
Who  mocked  the  sunshine  with  her  hair? 
Whose  kisses  of  most  pure  desire 
Set    all    my    youthful    veins    on    fire? 
Gone  from  the  world!    And  he  who  then 
Had  all  his  own  so  blest  a  prize — 
He,  too,   is   gone!     No   more   shall  men, 
In    mortal    scenes,    'neath    azure    skies, 
Behold    again    that   self-same   pair. 
They  both  are  gone — almost  in  name. 
Alas!    we   are   no   more   the   same. 
Adieu!   let  that  bright  vision  of  the  past 
Endure  while  life  and  memory  last. 
If  but  we  meet  the  vision  flies. 


NERO'S  FEAST 

'Our  noble  Nero's  pace  is  slow." 

'He  had  to  kill  his  mother,  yesterday,  you  know. 


IDYLS   OF    BOH  KM  1  A  291 

KNTERIM;  THE  WORLD  AVAR 

[A  Kansas  Ditty.] 

What  was  the  late  election  for? 
It  brought  the  ladies  out  to  vote 
To  boom  a  presidential  goat 
Who  kept  the  country  out  of  war. 
Ugly   female  wrecks, 
Zantippes  old  and  maids  unsexed, 
With   politics  are   greatly   vexed. 


TIIK  HARD  SPEAKS  WKLL  OF  HIMSELF 

Voices,  omens,  urge;   and  unseen  powers 
Imperiously    command    me. 

I  have  had  agonies  and  fearful  regrets. 

.My  heart  strings  have  been  exquisite  chords 

For  fools  to  tear  at, 

And  fools  are  crueler  than  fiends. 

I   am   no   carpet   knight, 

Reared  among  maids  and  roses. 

Xo  man  has  trod  ruder  ways  than  I  have, 

Or   longer  persevered  without  hope. 

I    have   had   pride,   skill,   determination    unsurpassed. 

What  have   I  won  by  these  endeavors? 

1  am  no  carpet  knight — 

I  have  stood  on  the  embattled  line. 

I  have   helped    resist   stormers, 

And   have  stormed   the  foe. 

I  have  been  so  close  to  the  foe 

I  could  touch  him  with  my  bayonet. 

Shielded  by  the  unseen  powers 

I  bore    a    charmed    life. 

Once  deadly   arms   poised    at    my    bre? 

They  were  so  close  I  dared  not  breathe. 

"Back  to  your   line!"  a  foeman  chief  exclaimed. 
I   went  back,  but  bore  my  arms  with  me. 

1  am  marching  through  the  Red  Sea. 
Walls  of  death  dismay  on  either  side, 
And   cUath   awaits. 
I    march   forward,  nevertheless, 
For  it  has  been  commanded. 

(The  bard  is  still  marching.  The  remainder  of  his  jere- 
miad vanished  in  the  earthquake  at  San  Francisco.  Good! 
Banzai!  Hoop  la!  ) 


>92  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

'•THE  GREAT  AND  ONLY  JOHN  L." 

[Died    February    2,    1918.] 

Spartacus,  long  passed  away, 
Was  merely  Sullivan  of  later  day — 
(Napoleon  of  the  fistic  fray!) 
Those  heroes  of  immortal  Troy, 
Mere  battlers  like  the  Boston  Boy. 
Hard  fighting  was  their  utmost  joy. 

Hail  and  farewell, 
John  L.! 


FEMININE  SUFFRAGE,  1916 

Feminine  pajamas 

Wave  high  on  the  breeze 
Of  the  hen-ridden  heaven 

Of  the  Kansas  Pharisees. 
In  the  uttermost  depths 

Of  the  Neutral  Zone 
The  daughters  of  ""Eve 

Have  come  to  their  own. 


WASHINGTON 

When  passions  wane  and  age  creeps  on, 
And  all  the  bloom  of  life  is  gone, 
Though  we  disdain  to  stoop  to  tears, 
We  know  that  he  hath  lost  his  years 
Whose  life  has  been  for  self  alone. 
One  man   in  mould   of  Washington — 
Of   Wisdom's    pure,    sagacious    mind — 
Is  worth  to  earth,  to  human  kind, 
More  than  a  million  gay  careers, 
To  sloth  or  selfishness  resigned. 
Ambition    bows    in    haughty   shame. 
At  merest  mention  of  his  name. 


-THE  LAST  MAN" 

Save   himself,  the  human  race  was  gone; 

Its  arts  and  fame,  achievements — all! 

The  globe  was  trembling  to  some  awful  doom. 

He  gazed  around  on  silent  stars — 

Earth's  ancient  riddle  was  unread. 


IDYLS   OF    BOHEMIA  293 

MY   LOST  POEMS 

They  vanished  in  a  planet's  throes — 
In   San   Francisco's  burning  passed  away, 
But  all  the  lore  that  mankind  knows — 
All  the  rhyme  and  famous  prose — 
Will  some  day  vanish  swift  as  they. 
Why   wee]»  about   a  lot  of  rhyme 
That  only   burnt    before  its   time? 


ROVING   LOVE 

Though  mine  thy  thoughts  more  stainless  far 
Than  moonlit  tides  or  rose's  hue; 
Though  mine  thy  smile — so  like  a  star 
That  pierces  all  the  midnight  through 
To  light  one  lone,  deserted  spot; 
And  mine  the  splendor  of  the  rays 
Of  thy  dark  eyes  that  baffle  praise, 
That  glow  with  fire  from  Heaven  caught — 
Though  mine  thy  wild,  sweet  spirit  now — 
There'll  be  a  day  with  sadness  fraught, 
When  each  will  muse  with  mournful  brow, 
Or  all,  alas!    will  be  forgot. 


HOLY  HOOZKKS  ON  THE  BOSPHORUS 

Send  us  money,  precious  money— 

'Tis  Heaven's  own  request. 
Money!    Money!    merely  money — 

Our  noble  band  will  do  the  rest. 


THE  MARINER'S  HOPE 

Eccentric  orbs  that  widely  shed 

Alarm    in   starry   ocean   skies; 

That    menace    constellations    red, 

And  startle  space  with  mute  surprise; 

That   burn   with  baleful  fires  afar, 

Then    plunge    to   darkened   gulfs   below, 

Surpass  you   not,   O   Polar   Star, 

That   faithful    shines    with    peaceful    glow, 

Thou  beacon   light   where   perils   are, 

Thou  Star  of  Hope  where  oceans  flow. 


294  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

BLACK  HAWK'S  ISLE 

[A  youthful  rime  of  revolt.    Written  in  1867. J 

The  fortress  was  a  rugged  pile 

Of  rough-hewn   logs  and   stone 

That  stood  upon  a  lovely  isle 

In  savage  strength  alone, 

And  frowned  from  off  a  rocky  shore 

Across  a  mighty   river's  tide 

Where  virgin  states  no  harvests  bore, 

But  prairies  rolled  in  splendor  wide, 

And  red  men  roved,  with  regal  sway — 

Uncultured,  reckless,  rude  and  free— 

Nor  deemed  then  dawned  an  evil  day 

To  bid  their  birthright   cease  to  be; 

To  bid  their  broad,   imperial   lands 

Become  an  alien   spoiler's   prey 

Like  treasures  heaped  for  friendly  hands 

But  snatched  by  ruthless  foes  away. 

Ah!    glorious  life  to  dwell  afar 

From   Civilization's  noisy  mart, 

Where  mad  contentions  ceaseless  are 

That  singe  and  sear  the  human  heart, 

And   warp   it   to  a   senseless   thing 

That  feels  for  kindred  woe  no  pain, 

But  nurses   hate  to   scathe   and  sting, 

When  only  peace  should  reign. 

O   scenes    of   greed!    of   cruel    strife 

For  soulless  wealth  or  selfish  power. 

Where  Mammon  robs   uncertain   life 

Of  every  bright  and  happy  hour, 

And  bids  each  noble  purpose  die 

As  gen'rous  impulse  bids  it  live; 

And  steels  the  heart  to  Sorrow's  cry, 

And  lifts  the  avenging  blade  on  high 

When    Pity   wrildly    pleads    forgive. 

O  Avarice,  with  subtle  hands 

You  ply  your  fiendish  master's  trade, 

Where    cities   mar    unhappy    lands 

That  primal  force  in  beauty  made, 

But  not  within  the  deserts  free 

You  bid   the  pomps   of  Nature  fade, 

Nor  can  your  reign  untrammelled  be 

Where  hoary  woodlands  cast  their  shade. 

Where  mountain   streams   in  sunlight  dance 

No  minions   vile  of  Care  intrude, 

To   wither  with   their   baleful   glance 

The  happy  realms  of  Solitude. 

No!  the  deserts  yet  are  free  from  Care; 

Their  breezes  bear  no  low  refrain 

To  bid   the  weary  heart   despair, 

Or  wake  anew  the  pangs  of  pain. 


[DYLS  OF  BOHEMIA  295 

O  for  a  weird,  Olympian  power 

To  mould  this  crowded   world  anew. 

The  vasty  plains  should  be  the  dower 

Of  Penury  and  Sorrow's  crew. 

Red   Riot  with  his  ragged   horde 

Should  range  no  more  for  spoil  and  prey, 

Nor    Might   unsheath  his  glitt'ring  sword 

To  bid    the   panting   rabble   stay. 

Pride  should  see  her  pampered  knaves 

O'er   their  heaped-up   plumage  wail; 

Oppression  with  its  cringing  slaves 

Should    perish    in    Destruction's    gale; 

The  captive  have  his  heart's   desire, 

The  nomad   roam   without   annoy; 

Lust  should  see  her  votaries  expire 

'Mid  tinsel  pomps  that  deck  their  joy; 

Hypocrisy    should    vainly    hide 

With  cloak  and  mask  its  hideous  form; 

Civilization,  with  brilliant  crime  allied, 

Should    vanish    in    the    wrathful    storm. 

Every  vestige  of  unnatural   life 

Should  be  sternly  swept  away, 

And  when  the  elements  had  ceased  their  strife, 

And  the  winged  lightnings  their  vengeful  play, 

Pitying  heavens  should  kindly  weep, 

And  with  green  verdure  robe  the  soil 

Where   joyless    serfs    now    sow    and    reap. 

Or   sink   beneath   their   ceaseless   toil. 

Where  gilded    cities   groan   with   crime, 

And  Fashion  holds  her  gaudy  reign, 

Should  dawn  again  a  halcyon  time, 

The  forest  lands  be  green  again. 

The  grand    old   streams,    unmeant   for   slaves, 

Should  murmur  wild  and  lawless  strains; 

As   sunshine   lit    their   silver   waves, 

Go  winding  through  unbounded  plains. 

The   vernal   hills,   once  more   reclaimed, 

Should  bear  profuse  their  grasses  tall, 

Where  countless  herds  should  roam  untamed, 

And  be  the  common  wealth  of  all. 

The  stately  crags,  where  threatening  shines 

Dread  enginry  of  pain  and  death, 

Should  scarcely  bear  their  weight  of  vines 

To  woo  the  south  wind's  balmy  breath. 

All   Karth  for  all!    not  for  a  few 

Who  rear  them  Babels  like  the  fools  of  old, 

And  thrust  aside  the  good  and  true 

Who  spurn  their  gods  of  senseless  gold. 

No  despot  rules  should  fret  the  will, 

Or  bid  the  careless  wand'rer  stay; 

No   turbid    stream   or   tiny   rill 

Mark  out  the  lines  of  haughty  sway, 


296  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Nor  cold  restraints  essay  to  chain 

Each  impulse  wild  of  mortal  breast, 

But  Freedom,  like  a  glorious  queen,  should  reign- 

Her  laws  the  first,  the  wildest  and  the  best. 

Ah!    Earth  for  once  should  truly  be 

What  gray  old   sages  oft  have  planned, 

And  Man  for  once  so  truly  free 

That  not  a  fruit  on  vine  or  tree 

But   should    thrive   for   any   hand. 


Alas!   this  Paradise  we  all  have  missed. 
The  youthful   bard,   we  must   insist, 
Wrote   like   a  crazy    Bolshevist. 


APOSTROPHE 

[To  a  great  court  attendant.  | 

Hail,  Kay  Reel!    Thou  with   front   name 

All  the  same  as  British  king's. 

Hail!  Vizier — not  Grand,  but  inferior  somewhat. 

Distorter  of  facts  imperfectly  known ; 

Suppresser   of  truth,   news,   information — 

By   imperial    command. 

Boswell    on    a    slight    scale; 

Very   slight.     Prevaricator,   camouflager; 

Expert  in  things  not  true, 

Nor   probable,  but  utterly   preposterous. 

Extracter  of  apothegms 

From  useless  and  egotistical  speeches 

Published  at  public  expense,  enormously  piled  on. 

Hail,  Kay  Reel!     Hail  arid  farewell! 

Apollyon  is  waiting  for  thee. 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  JKSSK  JAMES 

The  special  talents  that  secure  a  rope 

Are  also  requisite  to  win  a  star; 

To  rob  a  scoundrel   of  his  future  hope, 

And  send  him  howling  to  his  Maker's  bar, 

Is  but  to   show   the  pious  crowd 

That  gathers  round  your  gallows  base, 

That  had  you  fled  the  hangman's  shroud 

You  might  have  led  in  Glory's  godlike  chase. 

To  cut  a  throat  or  fire  a  town, 

Or  lead  battalions  on  to  death, 

Are    varied    routes    to   high    renown, 

That  empty  bubble  of  mortal  breath. 


IDYLS    OF    BOHEMIA  297 


IIKROKS  OF  SIIILOH 

[Written   before   the  Government  gave   attention 
to   Shiloh   field.  | 

Within   their   far,   forgotten  graves 

Those   silent   heroes  peaceful    sleep. 

The  rank    wild   grass   above    them    waves, 

The  wild  wood  vines  above  them  creep; 

The  sun  by  day,  the  moon  by  night, 

Shed  o'er  the  scene  a  hallowed  light. 

The  very  wind  moves  o'er  each  spot 

As   conscious  of   the   deeds  they   wrought 

With   valiant   hearts  one   awful   day. 

All  nature  honors  their  poor  clay 

That  crumbles  to  the  baser  dust, 

And   deems   it   but   a   sacred   trust 

That  naught  shall  break  their  long  repose. 

Ah!  where  their  friends?    Ah!  where  their  foes? 

Where  are  the  banners  that  they  bore? 

The  dreadful  arms  whose  sullen  roar 

Shook  all  the  earth  for  leagues  away? 

Where  are  the  lines  they  met   in  fray? 

The  pomps   that   gilded   that    wild   scene? 

The  chieftains  that   with   dauntless   mien, 

And  iron  souls  and  faith  serene, 

•Led    them   upon   the   wrathful   foe? 

The  millions  that  in  sad  dismay 

And  terror  paused,  yet  feared  to  know 

The  issue  of  that  fearful  day? 

The  mighty  pageant  all  is  gone, 

And  there  they  sleep  from  eve  to  dawn, 

From   dawn    to  eve,   forgotten  quite. 

Xo  gilded  bronze  or  burial  stone 

Is  by  the  forest  moss  o'ergrown. 

Xo  marble  shaft  of  spotless  white 

Recounts  their  fame  with  lofty  line; 

Xo  mourner  steals  to  it  by  night 

To  weep  or  sigh  or  e'en  repine; 

Xo  trump  proclaims  with  lordly  might 

That  there  they  fell  in  bloody  fight 

That  still  our  Nation's  stars  should  shine. 


MARC  ANTONY 

Though  Antony   was  quite  a  fool,  no  doubt, 
Such   kind   of  men  have  not  by  any   means  run  out. 
While  women  breathe,   in   vain  your  boasted   rules, 
They'll  own  the  world — they'll  make  mankind  their  fools. 


298  SONGS    OF    A  .MAN    WHO    FAILED 

GEX.  GEORGE  H.  THOMAS 

Search  in  the  days  of  palmy   Rome 
For  such  a  man — few  have  been  since. 
Napoleon  would  have  called  him  Prince, 
Then  given  him  a  ducal  home. 
While  monuments  of  glory  stand, 
Let  eloquence  of  song  command 
Our  children  keep  his  memory  green. 
Virginia  was   his  native   scene. 
When  civil  war  swept  o'er  the  land, 
Faint-hearted  men  with  fear  grew  pale. 
How  sweet  to  some  was  Treason's  tale — 
They  found  a  music  in  her  voice. 
In  vain  she  strove  to  sway  his  choice. 
He  wavered  not,  like  brilliant  Lee, 
To  vainly  mourn  his  country's  past, 
Nor  weighed  a  chance,  to  err  at  last. 
For  him  one  course  alone  could  be. 
He  drew  his  sword  at  Freedom's  call, 
Nor  weightier  sword  was  ever  cast, 
With  giant  force,  in  doubtful  scale. 
Serene  he  took  his  humble  post, 
Ere  long  to  lead  a  mighty  host. 
In   Trial's  hour   his  lips  were  still; 
His  deeds  proclaimed  his  patriot  will — 
"Act  well  thy  part  though  heavens  fall." 
What  were  the  fortunes  of  a  state, 
To  Freedom   and    his   nation's   fate? 
On  every  field  where  Thomas  came, 
Confusion  smote  our  country's  foes, 
And    winged    Victory    arose 
Through   lurid   cloud   or  battle   flame, 
To  crown  him  with  immortal  fame. 


HOMEWARD  BOUXD 

Our   vessel    in    regalia   brave 
Is  floating  on  the  billows  white; 
With  sable  plume  it  rides  the  wave 
Impatient  for  its  northern  flight. 
O'er  purple  floods  whose  breakers  lave 
The  golden  shores;  o'er  waters  bright 
Whose  isles  are  visions  of  delight — 
Whose  beauty  poets   vainly  tell — 
Green  capes  around,  with  vernal  height, 
And   vales  that   ravish   mortal  sight, 
Where  idle  races  happy  dwell; 
O'er  seas  afar — our  course  we  thread. 
Our  Nation's   banner  flies  o'erhead — 
Seas,  isles  and  summer  lands,  farewell! 


IDYLS   OF    BOH  KM  I  A  299 

'      TIIK   MARCH   OF  CORONAIH) 
[The  passage  that  follows  is  from  a  poem  I  lost. 
See  Prose  Addenda.] 

Xo  waters  flow — no  streams  or  limpid   rills. 

All  treeless,  bare,  volcanic,  are  the  hills 

That  line  our  way;  the  mountains  are  but  rock 

Thrown  up  in  air  by  some  rude  seismal  shock 

That   in  old  eras  tore  the  land  in  twain, 

Then  heaped  and  piled  it  all  in  one  again. 

Huge  lava  blocks  bestrew  the  hillsides  o'er. 

Behind,  a  waste — Inferno  lies  before. 

Each  war  steed  moans,  then  hastens  on  half  blind 

With  all  the  glare  that  falls  before,  behind, 

Around — all   o'er  this  arid,  stony  land 

That  seems   new   flung   from   Nature's   hateful   hand, 

It  is  too  vile,  too  drear,  for  home  of  man. 

The  plains  are  heated  white — they  smoke  all  day 

With  fervor  of  .the  beams  that  o'er  them  play. 

Alas:   that  e'er  this  fearful  march  began. 

Our   heavy   armor   is  all   heated   through. 

At  eve,   the  air  burns  up  the  very  dew. 

Across  mysterious  vales  that  shine  so  hot. 

Is  trace  of  race  that  we  encounter  not. 

Deep  channels  hewn  with  lavish  care, 

In  which  no  blessed  streams  of  water  are. 

We  find  these  olden  rivers  everywhere. 

Some  castle  walls  we  saw  in  one  weird  place, 

But  net  a  welcome  sight  of  human  face. 

In   savage  mountains   tall   are   human   signs — 

Habitations,   tunnels,   buried   mines, 

And  yet  no  slave  the  precious  dust  refines, 

A  strange,  uncanny,  sterile,  weary  zone 

Is  this — each  rueful  scene  bestrewn  with  stone — 

And  yet  it  hath,  somewhere,  a  royal  throne. 

Brave  Coronado  leads  us  on;    the  way 

Is  where  old   heathen   border   annals  tell 

Enchanted  cities  are  with  towers  gray, 

Wht-rp   worshipers  of  pagan   planets   dwell. 

When  cities,  treasures,  gems,  are  Spanish  prey, 

We'll    cool    in   crystal   bowls   of   precious   wine 

The  lips  that  now  for  some  coarse  draught  repine. 

Though  rude  the  game,  for  treasures  vast  we  play. 

Have  courage,  knights,  upon  this  lonesome  way. 


OCR   PROTKAX   MASTKR 

Don't  view  him  with  abhorrence, 
With  hatred  so  intense. 
Xcxt  month  he'll  change  opinions, 
And   hop   across   the  fence. 


300  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

THE  DREAM  OF  COUNT  PORTALA 

[Discovery  of  San  Francisco  Bay.] 

On  this  unrivalled  wave,  in  martial  pride, 
The   natives  of  the   Christian   world    might   ride. 
Imperial  armadas  here   might  float 
From  every  shore  where  Glory  sounds  her  note. 
No  dang'rous  reef  conceals  a  cruel  crest, 
In  purple  tides  that  flow  to  Ocean's  breast. 
Glorious  pathway  to  the  western  seas, 
Outshining  all  the  famous  views  that  please 
Where  glow  the  Pillars  of  great  Hercules. 
On  this  bright  way  Olympian  gods  might  glide 
In  stately  barges  to  vast  oceans  wide, 
Nor  deem  the  scene  beneath  celestial  pride. 
How  grand  it  is!      In  vain  the  feeble  praise 
Of  painter's  brush   or  gifted  poet's  lays. 
Here  has  Creator's  hand,  at  one  great  sweep, 
Devised  for  nations  of  sublimer  days 
The  noblest  haven  of  the  vasty  deep. 
How  strange  it  should  so  long  unknown  remain! 
A   vision — prophecy — sweeps  o'er   my  brain. 
Around  me  now  no  savage  landscape  lies — 
Palatial  domes  to  bluest  heavens  rise.v 
A  Tyrus,  Venice,  meets   enraptured  eyes — 
A  Carthage  fair — where  ships  of  earth  convene 
With  costly  wares  from  every  mortal  scene. 
Yea,  fleets  of  Indus  bright  and  far  Cathay 
Will  some  time  crowd   this  well-enfolded  bay. 
Rich  argosies  from  lands  to  us  unknown 
Will  fill  their  sails  to  reach  this  austral  zone. 
From  South  and  North  and  far  from  foamy  West 
Uncounted  ships  will  pass  o'er  ocean's  breast 
In   anxious   hope   their   alien    wealth    to   pour, 
With   lavish  zeal   upon  this  favored   shore. 
Here  shall  great  population,  grandeur,  dwell; 
A  capital  of  ocean  commerce  be, 
A  queen   of  power  on  the   western   sea — 
Nor  oriental  shore  its  busy  pomps  excel. 
All  rival  zones  will  fill  its  crowded  mart, 
"   Its  halls  will  glow  with  miracles  of  art. 
The   fabrics,   products,   ores,    of   every    clime 
Will  reach  this  Tyrus  of  the  future  time. 
Above   the  scene  the  flush  of  glory   soars; 
Lo!   populations  throng  the  argent  shores. 
The  vista  vast  with  life  and  splendor  fills, 
For  glittering  fanes  are  on  the  stately  hills; 
Wide  streets  resound  with  traffic's  busy  hum, 
And   Progress  roars  in  eons  yet  to  come. 
From  withered   Thebes  and   once   imperial   Rome 
Shall   Art  and   Honor  fly   to  find  a  home. 


IDYLS   OF    BO  HEM  I  A  301 

Commercial  Empire  here  shall  rear  its  throne, 

To  reign  o'er  shores  and  seas  and  isles  unknown; 

From  shifting  snows  to  equatorial  sign 

Th«»  sails  will  fill,  the  mighty  fleets  align. 

All  shines  revealed — the  scene,  the  future  time, 

The  queenly   city    in   her   pomp   sublime. 

Not  all  the  gold  the  Aztec  hills  contain 

Is   worth   to  thee  this  noble  prize,   O  Spain! 

0  cavaliers!   O  knights  of  high  disdain, 
For  nobler  spot  ye  sail  and  search  in  vain. 

1  cast   away   each   petty  wreath   I   claim 

To  link  this  Bay  with  Count  Portala's  name. 


THK   DRKAM  OF  LORI)  PARKIirUST 

I   wish    L  possessed  a  billion  of  gold. 

Like  an  Arab  my  tattered  tent   I'd  fold, 

No   more   at    laggard   Fortune   I   would   scold, 

Seas  1  would  sail  like  Captain  Kidd  the  bold, 

And   revel   and   roam   regardless   of  cost. 

Where'er  an  empurpled   ocean  rolled, 

By  my  fleet  ship  that  ocean  would  be  crossed. 

Of  cedar  from  hills  of  Lebanon  old 

My   ship   I    would   build    for   tempest   or   frost; 

With  gold  its  cabins  should  be  all  embossed; 

Its  sails  should   be  silk — O  clown   in   its  hold, 

In  barrels  and  casks  champagne  should  be  rolled. 

The  daintiest   fare   by   gourmands  extolled 

Should  daily  regale  my  sailor  boys  bold; 

With  oceans  of  grog  and  juice  of  the  lime 

I'd  keep  the  rogues  drunk  two  thirds  of  the  time, 

And   issue  commands  in  musical  rhyme 

Whene'er  they  endeavored  the  masts  to  climb. 

Most    beautiful   girls   I'd   gather   on   board, 

Each  Amazon  armed  with  her  tongue  and  a  sword. 

The  queens  of  the  land  I'd  coax  to  embark 

For   a   daring  cruise  on  a   Poet's  Ark. 

While  their  songs  dissolved  the  ocean  in  smiles, 

We'd  sail  in  quest  of  the  Fortunate  Isles. 

If  ever  our  ship  was   unpleasantly  tossed, 

We'd   baffle  Aeolus  with   feminine  wiles, 

And, revel  and  roam  for  a  thousand  miles, 

And  all  get  sober  when  the  ship  got  lost. 


302  SONGS   OF   A   MAN   WHO   FAILED 

MY  SEVENTY-FIFTH  BIRTHDAY 

In  old  age  our  vices  leave  us,  and  we  think  we  have  grown 
virtuous. — Byron. 

What  blessing  crowns  my  natal  day? 
What  ample  joy?     What  quiet  bliss? 
My   greatest  boon,   I   think,   is  this — 
The  belles  and  dames  and  ladies  gay 
Ignore  me  quite — they  keep  away. 
Without    a    friend    in    Cupid's    court; 
No  bother   now,    no   sinful    sport, 
I'm    homeward    bound    and    near    to    port. 
Wine  and   women,   jest  and   song, 
No  longer  tempt  to  pathways  wrong. 
What  grievous   ills  a  man  escapes 
In  sailing  round  Life's  final  capes. 
There's  not  much  fun,  but  scenes  are  blest 
With  solitude,  content,  and  mental  rest. 


TRAJAN  AT  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

[Written  on  December  9th,  19/20,  when  I  reached 
the  age  of  76.  | 

Upon  the  shore  of  that  far  sea  he  paused, 
And  watched   the  sunset   rays   glint  o'er  the  wave. 
In   massive   armor   plates   of   brass   and   steel, 
And  rich-enamelled  gold,  erect  he  stood. 
His   tow'ring   form   betrayed    no   sign    of   age, 
And  yet  his  spacious  brow  bore  marks  of  cane; 
His  fearless  eyes  had  melancholy  gaze. 
Why,  O  Trajan  bold,  is  now  thy  spirit  sad? 
Why  gaze  so  wistfully  on  Persian  sea? 
Rome  was  Mistress  of  the  World,  and  Trajan  ruled, 
With  undisputed  sway,  o'er  all  the  lands  of  Rome. 
Three  seasons  now  had  Trajan  warred  to  reach 
This  far,  remote,  and  long  defended  sea. 
Assyria,   Mesopotamia,   Parthia  fell, 

And  richer  lands  beside.    Here  stood  he  unopposed  at  last, 
And  gazed  in  silence  o'er  the  tranquil  wave. 
'Where  goes  yon  vessel  there  with  snowy  sails?" 
He  said  to  Arab  chief  who  waited  at  his  side. 
'To  India,  lord,'  'was  low  and  brief  reply. 
'Twas  thus  I  thought,"  and  long  again  he  mused. 
Then  waved  in  gesture  to  a  band  of  knights 
Who  stood  aloof  to  bide  his  pleasure  there. 
'Tomorrow,  Sirs,"  he  said,   "we  counter-march. 
We  take  the  way  that  leads  to  distant  Rome. 
Yon  bark  you  see  is   off  for  India  shores. 
This  conquered  land  is  vast — is  limitless. 


IDYLS   OF   BOHEMIA  303 

I   have    a    soldier's    pride    in    greatness    of 

I  nipt  rial    Rome,   whose   boundaries   my    sword 

Hath  greatly  widened  out.     It  was  a  dream 

Of  early  days  with  me,  to  lead  victorious  arms 

Till    India  fell.     The   Macedonian  king 

Reached   the   verge  of   that   far   eastern    land, 

And  then  was  stayed.     With  one  accord 

His  valiant  soldiers  did  refuse  to  march 

On  any  course  that  did  not  lead  to  Grecian  soil. 

Great  Alexander  raved,  implored,  in  rage  he  wept, 

But  not  a  man  would  change;    so  counter-march 

Was  made.     My  years,  my  lords,  are  sixty-three, 

And   Alexander   died   at   thirty-two. 

When  safe  return  is  made  to  Babylon, 

At    Alexander's    shrine    we'll    sacrifice, 

And  offer  honors  for  his  splendid  youth. 

1  am  too  old,  my  lords,  to  march  to  India  now." 

In   triumphal   guise  he  made  his  slow   return. 

Another  war  he  fought  to  swift  success, 

And  then,  at  sixty-five,  he  died. 

His  India  dream,  which  long  had  given  bitter  thought, 

And  poisoned  happy  hours,  was  left  unrealized. 

The   trace   of    mighty   things    he   did    is   gone. 

Time  and  dust  of  ages  screen  them  o'er. 

Where  cities  vast  arose  are  silent  mounds  of  sand; 

Where  proudest    legions    marched    not    one   lone    man    is 

found. 

Of  all    those   paladins    not   e'en    a   bone    remains. 
Trajan  —  triumphs,  pomps  and  pageants  of  his  time  —  are 

gone. 

He  left  a  name  —  which  well  nigh  tells  it   all. 
The  desert  horseman  flying  by  is  greater  king  than  he. 
All   that  mightiest  men  achieve  must   vanish  thus. 

At  seventy  years   Tamerlane  had  all   Assyria, 
India,    Persia,   Asia,  at  his    feet, 
I'.ui   off  he  rode  to  seize  the  Chinese  throne; 
En  route,  on  barren,  chilly  plains  he  died. 


laurels  of  old  age  are  worthless  bays, 
A  mockery  of  brilliant  early  hopes. 
If  won,  their  shrivelled   flowers,  withered  leaves, 
Are    barely    worth    a   thought   or   final    blow. 
Win  glory  in  the  flush  and  bloom  of  youth, 
Or   not   at    all,  nor   view    it   as   a   prize. 
Vain    is   Glory's  chase,  at   best,   save   for   amusement 
Of  an  idle  man. 


PROSE  ADDENDA 


20 


PROSE    ADDENDA  307 

TIIK  SOKKOWS  OF  OTIIKRS 

"Go  tell  your  troubles  to  a  policeman." 
Consider  them  told,  and  now  for  the  sorrows  of  others. 

In  December,  1917,  Samuel  Eberly  Gross,  a  Chicago  real 
estate  dealer,  charged  Edmund  Rostand,  the  famous  French 
writer,  with  having  plagiarized  "Cyrano  de  Bergerac"  from 
a  play  Gross  produced  in  1910  entitled  "The  Merchant  Of 
Cornville."  In  the  Tinted  States  District  Court  at  Chicago, 
.Mr.  Gross  fully  established  his  claim. 

On  December  30th,  1919,  an  associated  press  dispatch  from 
London,  Eng.,  announced  the  death  of  Waller  M.  Fisher, 
formerly  of  San  Francisco,  and  added  that  "he  claimed  to  have 
written  a  great  part  of  a  noted  History  of  the  Pacific  States, 
the  authorship  of  which  is  credited  to  Herbert  Bancroft."  In 
bringing  out  his  invaluable  "History  Of  The  Pacific  States," 
a  series  of  books,  Hubert  Howe  Bancroft  employed  many  per- 
sons. They  worked  in  various  capacities.  Who  did  the  most 
of  the  writing  it  would  be  hard  to  say.  He  squandered  a 
fortune  in  his  enterprise.  In  1881  his  brother  told  me  that 
the  financial  returns  had  been  disappointing,  discouraging. 
For  his  great  efforts  and  great  loss,  Bancroft  deserves  undis- 
puted honors  of  authorship. 

In  1887  Dr.  Xicol  Gigliotti  published  in  a  newspaper  at 
Naples,  Italy,  a  poem  entitled  "Fate."  Eighteen  years  after- 
wards he  came  to  this  country,  and  was  surprised  to  learn 
that  his  poem,  translated  into  English,  had  become  the  prop- 
erty of  Senator  John  J.  Ingalls  of  Kansas.  Under  the  title  of 
"Opportunity"  it  was  widely  celebrated.  President  Roosevelt 
kept  an  "autograph  copy"  of  it.  framed,  and  signed  by  Ingalls, 
hanging  on  the  wall  in  the  White  House.  Dr.  Gigliotti  pro- 
tested in  a  Philadelphia  paper,  but  in  every  poetical  collec- 
tion, and  in  every  school  book,  the  poem  continues  to  be 
credited  to  Ingalls.  The  distinguished  Senator  never  pub- 
lished any  other  poem.  "To  him  that  hath  it  shall  be  given, 
and  from  him  that  hath  not,  even  that  which  he  hath  shall 
be  taken." 

On  June  10,  1915,  the  Omaha  "Bee"  revived  a  matter  of 
the  past,  as  follows  :  In  July,  1863,  "Arthur's  Home  Maga- 
zine" published  a  poem  entitled  "There  Is  Xo  Death."  It 
was  written  by  J.  L.  McCreery,  a  native  of  Iowa.  Its  popu- 
larity was  unbounded.  It  was  copied  into  newspapers  in 
every  part  of  the  United  States,  and  wa?  reproduced  abroad 
in  every  land  where  the  English  tongue  is  spoken.  In  some 
manner  it  came  to  be  credited  to  Lord  Lytton,  the  British 
novelist,  and  with  that  mistake  attached  it  went  into  school 
books,  and  into  scores  of  miscellaneous  collections  of  poetry. 
Mr.  McCreery  protested;  the  Lippincotts  investigated,  and 
awarded  the  authorship  to  McCreery.  Yet,  in  millions  of  vol- 
umes of  all  kinds,  the  poem  has  been  passed  on  to  posterity 
with  Lord  Lytton's  name  attached. 

A  long  time  ago  Josiah   Gregg,  a  roving  newspaper   man, 


308  SONGS   OF   A   MAN   WHO    FAILED 

published  many  sketches  portraying  the  romance  and  dangers 
of  the  old  Santa  Fe  Trail.  He  ended  by  publishing  a  book 
entitled  "The  Western  Prairies."  Poorly  managed,  the  ven- 
ture failed,  but  writers  of  all  kinds  pounced  upon  his  mine 
of  freshness,  beauty  and  vivid  description,  and  pillaged  the 
book  from  beginning  to  end.  The  noted  novelist  Captain 
Marryat  joined  in  the  onslaught.  In  Marryat's  tale  of  "Mon- 
sieur Violet,"  Gregg's  glowing  portrayals  of  the  wild  West 
were  "swiped  bodily"  and  he  was  compelled  to  go  on  record 
with  a  protest,  "lest  he  might  some  time  later  be  charged 
with  plagiarism  by  Captain  Marryat."  Nobody  paid  any  at- 
tention to  him. 

Who  wrote  "The  Call  Of  Kansas"?  In  May,  1907,  it  was 
published  anonymously  in  the  Lawrence  (Kan.)  "Journal." 
It  then  appeared  in  the  Kansas  City  "Star",  and  was  widely 
copied  and  admired.  The  Lawrence  "Journal"  then  editorially 
announced  that  Miss  Esther  M.  Clark  of  Chanute,  Kan.,  was 
authoress  of  the  poem,  and  she  afterwards  included  it  in  a 
volume  of  verse  she  published.  She  claimed  to  have  written 
the  poem  in  California,  while  homesick  for  the  green  and 
beautiful  prairies  of  Kansas.  Thereupon  Mrs.  Clark-Karr  of 
Hutchinson,  Kan.,  filed  a  counter  claim.  She  said  she  pub- 
Jished  the  poem  in  the  Hutchinson  (Kan.)  "Gazette"  in  1900, 
"not,  possibly,  in  exactly  the  same  language,  but  with  every 
thought  as  given  in  Miss  Clark's  effort."  The  Kansas  His- 
torical Society  made  stern  demands  for  proofs  of  authorship. 
I  never  learned  how  the  dispute  ended — was  too  busy  to  find 
out.  The  poem  is  very  beautiful,  and  is  worth  quarreling 
about. 

During  the  world  war,  "Hoch  Der  Kaiser,"  a  burlesque 
poem,  had  great  popularity,  and  was  recited  at  military 
gatherings  on  three  continents.  The  first  lines  read: 

"Der   Kaiser  of  dis  Faterland, 
Und  Gott  on  high,  all  dings  command. 
Ve  two — ach!   Don't  you  understand? 
Meinself — und   Gott." 

The  late  Rear  Admiral  Coghlan,  of  .the  American  Navy, 
recited  this  rhyme  at  a  banquet,  and  was  always  afterwards 
referred  to  as  its  author.  That  a  Canadian  named  Rose  wrote 
and  published  it  at  Montreal,  but  died  before  it  became 
noted,  is  now  generally  conceded. 

Minnie  Myrtle  Miller,  first  wife  of  Joaquin  Miller,  was 
somewhat  deficient  in  culture,  from  lack  of  early  advantages, 
but  was  a  woman  of  great  natural  ability.  Her  acquaintance 
with  Miller  began  from  poetical  contributions  she  sent  to  a 
country  paper  he  was  publishing  at  Eugene  City,  Oregon. 
She  claimed  to  have  written  part  of  the  "Songs  Of  The  Sierras," 
and  to  have  assisted  in  the  preparation  of  the  whole  volume. 
This  was  Miller's  best  book  and  most  successful  one.  When 
it  was  completed  he  deserted  her  and  her  children,  and  with 
$2,000  in  gold  in  his  wallet,  went  to  London  and  won  fame. 


PRO  SE    AD  DEN  D  A  309 

This  is  what  she  told  me,  and  I  believed  her.  Her  whole  life 
\\as  unfortunate.  She  died  in  a  New  York  hospital. 

Many  years  ago  a  noted  Chicago  preacher  delivered — as  was 
his  wont — a  brilliant  sermon.  A  canny  old  Scotchman  in  the 
audience  scratched  his  pate  a  while,  much  puzzled,  and  finally 
decided  that  he  had  either  heard  or  read  that  sermon  before. 
Hunting  through  a  lot  of  old  books  at  home,  at  last  he  found 
the  sermon,  and  in  the  daily  papers  of  the  city  he  made  the 
piracy  public.  "The  church  hates  a  scandal,"  and  the  preacher 
had  to  go.  On  Memorial  Day,  1914,  at  Arlington  Cemetery,  D.  C., 
a  distinguished  member  of  the  United  States  Senate  delivered 
a  fine  oration.  It  soon  transpired  that  an  oration  almost 
like  it  had  been  delivered  at  Lincoln's  tomb  (Springfield,  Ills.) 
two  years  previously,  by  Jasper  T.  Darling  of  Chicago.  In 
parallel  quotations  the  Chicago  "Herald"  showed  that  both 
orators  had  not  only  spoken  in  similar  style,  but  had  often 
used  precisely  the  same  language,  word  for  word.  Mr.  Darling 
saved  himself  by  having  used  the  language  first.  The  Senator 
tried  to  explain  that  the  great  number  of  quotation  marks 
he  had  used  in  his  manuscript,  had  escaped  the  hearing  of 
his  auditors. 

The  "Literary  Digest"  of  May  15,  1920,  says  that  "Sermon 
Factories"  are  in  regular  operation  at  various  cities  in  the 
Kast  "where  clergymen  who  lack  in  imagination  and  strenu- 
csity  obtain  ready-made  hand-me-down  sermons  at  moderate 
prices."  Special  prayers,  lectures,  rhetorical  and  evangelistic 
exhortations,  etc.,  are  also  abundantly  supplied.  The  "Chris- 
tian Century"  concedes  and  laments  the  truth  of  the  state- 
ment. An  expounder  of  the  gospel  no  longer  needs  brains. 
Only  a  roll  of  money  is  required. 

An  inter-state  collegiate  oratorical  contest  took  place  at 
Sioux  Falls,  South  Dakota,  on  March  26,  1915,  at  which 
J.  A.  Johnson  of  the  University  of  South  Dakota  won  an  ora- 
torical trophy  and  a  cash  prize  of  $40.  He  was  soon  charged 
with  plagiarizing  the  greater  part  of  his  oration.  Judge 
Gaynor  of  the  Iowa  Supreme  Court  and  Professor  Lardner 
of  thf  Northwestern  University  investigated,  and  ordered  the 
"victor"  to  return  the  trophy  and  the  money,  which  he  did. 

Several  years  ago  the  "Daily  Post"  of  Washington  City,  on 
the  authority  of  IT.  S.  Senator  Bacon  of  Georgia,  published 
a  story  of  Lee's  magnanimity  at  Gettysburg.  (All  civil  war 
stories  are  located  at  Gettysburg.)  The  incident  really  oc- 
curred at  Corinth,  Mississippi:  the  wounded  soldier  was  a 
comrade  of  my  own  regiment;  the  Confederate  commander 
was  General  Sterling  Price  of  Missouri;  and  I  published  the 
incident  in  full,  forty  years  ago,  in  the  San  Francisco 
•'Chronicle." 

(  n  the  18th  of  January,  p.nri.  at  Washington  City,  occurred 
the  death  of  Col.  John  A.  Joyce,  aged  72.  An  associated 
press  dispatch  may  be  summarized  thus:  He  had  lived  at  the 
national  capital  half  a  century;  had  been  generally  known  as 
'the  poet  of  Washington;'  was  familiar  to  all  by  his  long, 


310  SONGS   OF   A   MAX   WHO    FAILED 

white,  flowing  locks;  he  had  published  many  books,  biograph- 
ical and  poetical;  he  was  especially  famed  as  the  author 
of  the  verses  "Love  And  Laughter,"  known  to  the  English- 
speaking  world  by  the  opening  lines: 

"Laugh  and  the  world  laughs  with  you; 
Weep,  and  you  weep  alone." 

The  dispatch  added:  "His  claim  has  been  disputed,  and  the 
controversy  at  one  time  attracted  wide  attention." 

As  the  poetic  lines  referred  to  appear  in  a  volume  issued 
by  a  "reputable  publishing  house"  with  the  name  of  Ella 
Wheeler  Wilcox  attached,  the  poor  Colonel  doubtless  often 
wept  alone.  He  had  no  "name"  to  speak  of,  and  Mrs.  Wilcox 
had,  so  it  was  more  profitable  to  the  publisher  to  have  the 
lines  written  by  Mrs.  Wilcox.  Like  Providence,  the  book 
pirate  "moves  in  a  mysterious  way  his  wonders  to  perform." 
"Ouster"  is  not  the  only  military  poem  Mrs.  Wilcox  wrote. 
In  the  "Cosmopolitan"  Magazine  of  September,  1915,  thus 
she  wailed: 

"And  there  were  shameful  things; 
Soldiers  and  forts,  industries  of  death, 
And  devil-ships,  and   loud-winged  devil   birds, 
All  bent  on  slaughter  and  destruction." 

To  regard  soldiers  and  forts  and  airplanes  as  "shameful 
things,"  scarcely  denotes  a  martial  spirit. 

In  Virginia  City,  Nevada,  in  other  days,  there  was  a  bright 
newspaper  man  who  came  to  be  widely  known  as  Dan  DeQuille. 
His  humorous  productions  made  mirth  everywhere.  At  last 
he  wrote  a  bulky  volume  about  mining  and  other  picturesque 
scenes  and  industries,  and  bethought  him  of  a  publisher.  In 
the  east  he  had  a  friend  who  was  fast  growing  rich  and  re- 
nowned in  the  book-writing  and  publishing  line.  He  wrote 
to  his  friend.  "Send  on  the  book,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 
Dan  sent  it.  All  the  brilliant,  bright,  amusing  features  dis- 
appeared from  its  pages,  and  the  book  was  so  loaded  down 
with  dry  bullion  statistics  and  other  such  rubbish  that  Dan 
didn't  know  his  own  book  when  he  finally  saw  it  in  print. 
If  millionaire  Mackay  had  not,  as  a  kindly  favor,  bought 
five  hundred  copies,  Dan  would  have  been  badly  in  debt.  The 
book  was  killed,  of  course,  and  a  possible  rival  removed. 
Also,  Dan  was  cured  of  the  deplorable  habit  of  writing  books. 

Do  the  gods  of  literature  stoop  to  such  practices?  Yes, 
if  there's  any  money  in  it.  I  might  as  well  mention  the 
literary  friend.  He  was  none  other  than  Mark  Twain. 

Eleanor  Hoyt  Brainerd,  a  popular  western  fiction  writer, 
says:  "I  have  no  illusions  about  the  class  of  my  work,  or 
the  work  cf  my  contemporaries.  It  is  not  literature.  It  is 
the  result  of  business  conditions.  I  supply  the  demand.  1 
sell  my  product  the  same  as  soap  or  furniture.  With  most 
modern  authors,  writing  is  not  an  art  but  a  business.  They 
peddle  their  wares  as  other  people  peddle  merchandise.  They 
seek  the  best  markets.  It  does  not  require  genius  nor  even 


PRO  Si:    ADDENDA  311 

a  high  order  of  talent.     Any  one  of  average  intelligence  can 
write  saleable  stuff,  if  time  is  given  to  the  task." 

Xo  longer  a  matter  of  fame,  honor,  romance,  lofty  sentiment, 
and  other  relics  of  antediluvian  times.  O  American  Litera- 
ture, hast  thou  sunk  to  this?  The  dismayed  and  bewildered 
author  finds  himself  up  against  a  mere  case  of  commerce  and 
manufacturing.  In  eras  past,  poets  wrote  for  fame;  from 
patriotic  or  religious  motives,  political  enthusiasm;  for  some 
proud  or  noble  purpose.  Now  writing  is  a  low,  obsequious 
trade;  a  species  of  traffic,  truck-peddling.  Ideas,  opinions, 
pathos,  diction,  are  not  of  high  account.  "Stuff"  is  wanted, 
stuff  suited  for  the  "market";  literary  hay,  fodder  for  the 
reading  animals.  Alas!  our  degenerate  age  and  degenerate 
land.  v 

The  May  number  of  the  "Bookman"  (this  year),  contains 
the  advertisement  of  a  Milwaukee  firm  that  is  ready  to  "pre- 
pare articles,  speeches,  lectures,  and  special  addresses  for  all 
occasions."  Why  not  manufacture  presidential  messages,  guber- 
natorial messages,  prayers,  political  excoriations,  special  out- 
bursts of  profanity  for  enraged  voters,  etc.,  etc.?  The  field 
is  limitless.  O,  American  Literature!  again  we  weep  for  thee. 
A  low,  vile  trade  hast  thou  become.  Only  fallen  kings,  ex- 
Kaisers,  and  rich  men  like  myself,  can  put  forth  real  opinions, 
instead  of  thinking  as  the  book  publisher  desires. 

Let  us  repeat  with  Job:  "O  that  mine  enemy  would  write 
a  book!"  Wish  him  all  the  trouble  you  can.  What  is  the 
use  of  more  books?  Well,  there  isn't  any  great  need  of  them. 
Walk  through  a  famous  library.  See  splendid  productions 
stacked  up  that  nobody  looks  at — covered  with  dust — perhaps 
with  mold.  If  a  man  of  wealth  and  leisure  should  give  ten 
or  Twelve  hours  a  day  to  steady,  persistent,  industrious  read- 
ing, and  should  read  undisturbed  till  the  undertaker  came 
in  to  bury  him,  he  could  never  begin  to  read  one-tenth  of  the 
grand  books  that  have  been  printed — modern,  classic,  original 
translated.  What's  the  use  of  more  books?  Read  the  old 
A  new  author's  only  excuse  should  be  that  he  has  a 
school  book  that  contains  no  propaganda,  or  that  he  an- 
nounces a  great  scientific  discovery,  opposes  a  great  evil, 
to  advance  a  great  reform,  or  otherwise  aims  to  really 
benefit  mankind.  Outside  of  that,  read  the  daily  papers,  and 
all  that  you  can  get  time  to  read  of  the  old  books  that  are 
being  totally  forgotten. 

Gail  Hamilton,  a  near  relative  of  Hon.  James  G.  Elaine, 
had  brilliant  success  as  a  writer.  Wronged  by  certain  pub- 
lishers, she  issued  a  volume  entitled  "The  Battle  Of  The 
Books,"  and  made  unpleasant  disclosures,  after  which  she 
was  little  heard  of.  The  "book  trade"  quietly  "put  her  out." 

With  a  great  staff  of  secretaries,  scribes,  researchers,  copy- 

ollaborators,  etc..  about  him,  Alexandre  Dumas  run   a 

literary  sweat-shop  and  veritable  book  factory.     Well  known 

writers    like   Auguste    Maquet,    Pier   Angelo    Fiorentino,    Paul 

Bocage,  Paul  Meurice,  and  other  men  of  talent  assisted.     Con- 


312  SONGS   OF   A    MAN   WHO   FAILED 

veniences  abounded.  In  this  way  a  multitude  of  books  reached 
the  public,  bearing  the  name  of  Dumas  as  author.  In  a 
squabble  that  got  into  court,  it  was  proven  that  the  name 
of  Dumas  "appeared  on  the  title  page  of  more  novels  than 
could  be  produced  by  one  man  if  he  worked  incessantly  at  his 
desk,  day  and  night,  for  the  whole  365  days  in  a  year."  The 
income  of  Dumas  rose  to  $200,000  per  annum,  but  his  literary 
slaves  got  little  of  the  money.  He  squandered  it  on  himself, 
and  on  unworthy  parasites  and  associates,  and  died  poor. 
Of  the  books  bearing  his  name,  it  would  be  impossible  now  to 
tell  which  ones  he  really  wrote. 

At  New  York  City  in  1905,  David  Belasco,  the  noted  play- 
wright, was  forced  to  publicly  admit -that  he  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  signing  his  name  to  magazine  articles  he  never 
wrote,  and  not  even  a  page  of  which  he  had  ever  read.  The 
matter  obtained  publicity  because  one  article  had  been  previ- 
ously printed.  The  real  author  rebelled,  and — what  was  more 
to  the  purpose — was  able  to  prove  his  case.  The  real  author 
of  a  book  is  often  unknown  to  the  public.  "Leslie's  Monthly" 
says:  "The  conservative  old  trade  of  book  publishing  is 
honey-combed  by  men  who,  using  the  advertising  page  as 
a  gaming  table,  speculate  in  authors  as  other  gamblers  do  in 
ivory  chips." 

The  authorship  of  the  noted  Southern  war  song  "The 
Bonnie  Blue  Flag"  was  claimed  by  two  persons — by  Annie 
C.  Ketcham  of  Kentucky,  and  by  Henry  McCarthy,  a  song 
writer.  The  dispute  was  never  settled.  The  authorship  of 
"Beautiful  Snow"  is  still  in  doubt. 

In  a  collection  of  "American  Poems"  edited  by  Augustus 
White  Long  of  Princeton  University,  the  famous  Civil  War 
poem,  "The  Blue  And  The  Gray,"  is  credited  to  Francis 
Miles  Finch,  a  graduate  of  Yale  College.  The  poem  has  long 
been  believed  to  be  the  production  of  a  gifted  Roman  Catholic 
clergyman. 

In  commenting  on  the  writings  of  Philip  Freneau,  an  early 
American  poet,  Professor  Long  quotes  this  line: 

"The  hunter  and  the  deer — a  shade." 

The  professor  then  asserts  that  Thomas  Campbell,  the 
famous  British  poet,  stole  this  line  entire  from  Freneau,  with- 
out changing  a  word.  Professor  Long  continues:  "Sir  Walter 
Scott  also  borrowed  a  line  from  Freneau,  and  Professor  Tyler 
says  that  an  English  lady  took  bodily  one  of  Freneau's  poems 
and  published  it  as  her  own.  Such  marks  of  attention  are 
flattering  to  the  early  American  poet." 

Even  blind  Homer  is  on  defence.  It  is  not  positively  cer- 
tain who  wrote  the  story  of  Troy.  Antiquarians  say  that 
many  bards  contributed  to  the  tales  and  legends  that  Homer 
only  put  together  in  proper  shape  and  improved  somewhat. 
The  Book  of  Job,  we  are  told,  is  what  remains  of  an  old 
Chaldean  drama — a  pagan  production.  As  a  preface  to  his 
"Temple  Of  Fame"  Alexander  Pope  says:  "The  hint  of  the 


PRO  SK    ADDENDA  313 

following  piece  was  taken  from  Chaucer's  House  of  Fame." 
Literary  evolution. 

In  my  clays  of  youthful  ardor,  soon  after  I  had  donned  a 
village  editor's  crown  of  thorns,  a  liberal  advertiser  called  in 
a  glow  of  enthusiasm,  with  a  poem  he  wished  me  to  publish. 
It  had  been  written  by  his  son,  he  told  me,  then  a  student 
at  a  well  known  college  of  a  nearby  State,  and  had  been  read 
at  the  graduating  exercises  of  the  institution,  exciting  much 
applause.  The  father  was  proud  of  the  matter.  I  glanced 
over  the  poem  with  interest. 

"Sir,"  I  said,  "I'll  print  it  writh  pleasure.  Your  son  is  a 
poet — a  real  one.  Tell  him  to  write  more.  Bring  it.  to  me. 
I'll  print  anything  he  writes." 

The  production  was  "The  Bells  of  Shandon" — to  this  day 
one  of  my  greatest  favorites.  A  few  days  after  the  poem 
was  in  print,  with  editorial  laudations,  a  son  of  the  Green 
Isle,  in  homely  blouse  and  overalls,  modestly  entered.  He 
quickly  convinced  me  that  Father  Prout  wrote  "The  Bells  of 
Shandon."  Much  vexed,  I  declared  my  purpose  to  thoroughly 
set  the  matter  right  in  the  next  issue  of  the  paper. 

"Xo,  I  wouldn't,','  my  visitor  advised.  "It'l  make  the  old 
man  feel  bad.  Everybody  knows  who  wrote  'The  Bells  Of 
Shandon.'  " 

So  the  affair  passed  off  in  gloomy  silence,  but  no  more 
poems  reached  me  for  publication. 

Kant  avers  that  a  really  original  idea  comes  only  once 
in  course  of  centuries.  Almost  everything  has  been  thought 
of,  and  "there  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun.  "  "The  jokes 
the  c.reeks  laughed  at  in  the  seige  of  Troy  are  still  floating 
around  in  modernized  form."  Under  like  circumstances  men 
often  have  the  same  ideas.  Still,  it  is  improbable  that  two 
men  in  widely  different  localities  would  think  out  a  whole 
book  in  precisely  the  same  way,  at  nearly  the  same  time, 
and  happen  to  offer  it  to  the  same  publisher — without  some 
human  agency  in  the  matter.  In  the  pursuit  of  coin,  "coinci- 
<1>  nee"  should  not  be  made  a  cloak  for  all  kinds  of  rascalities. 
Napoleon  distrusted  a  brilliant  courtier,  and  said:  "He  lies 
too  much.  One  may  very  well  lie  sometimes,  but  always  is 
too  much."  Gobbling  a  whole  book  is  too  much  of  a  "coinci 
dence." 

That  complaints  about  ill  treatment  by  publishers  receive 
little  or  no  attention  from  the  public  press  is  not  strange. 
A  narrative  of  ill  usage  is  usually  tedious  and  uninteresting. 
An  <  (iitor  has  no  time  to  investigate  such  matters,  nor  is  he 
situated  always  to  do  so,  nor  is  he  at  liberty  to  write  offhand 
about  every  man's  painful  misfortunes.  The  world  is  full  of 
unredressed  wrongs.  It  is  not  the  editor's  business  to  set 
them  right — not  all  of  them,  anyhow.  So  he  is  silent,  if, 
indeed,  he  reads  such  fulminations  at  all. 

Great  are  the  tragedies  of  genius!  Robert  T.  Paine,  an 
American  sculptor,  took  a  mallet  and  knocked  to  dust  a 
huge  clay  model  of  Xeptune  on  which  he  had  toiled  for  ten 


314  SONGS    OF   A   MAN   WHO   FAILED 

years.  The  god  with  his  trident,  mermaids,  chariot,  fiery 
steeds — all  majesty  and  beauty — fell  to  insensate  dust. 
"Look!"  said  Paine.  "This  is  my  life  work.  Of  what  use 
is  it  to  me  now?  On  the  floor  above  my  wife  lies  dead — a 
suicide — victim  of  hope  too  long  deferred.  Merit  has  no  ap- 
preciation here.  I  have  made  medals,  designs  and  sculptures 
for  men  whose  reputations  are  secure.  What  matter  if  mv 
thought,  ability,  soul,  went  into  their  work — had  vivid  ex- 
pression there.  I  had  to  have  bread  for  wife  and  little  ones. 
Now  I  am  done.  Life  is  nothing  to  me  now." 

Often  inventors  toil  for  years  in  penury  and  starvation  to 
work  out  ideas  rich  with  benefits  to  mankind.  At  last  the 
goal  is  near.  In  quest  of  aid,  they  divulge  secrets  long  con- 
cealed. Trusted  ones  betray,  snatch  golden  ideas,  wear  the 
bays,  and  reap  the  great  rewards.  The  real  inventor  dies 
in  poverty,  obscurity  and  scorn  of  men.  A  few  years  ago  a 
St.  Louis  paper  published  an  account  of  more  than  a  dozen 
such  cases.  One  of  these  inventors,  a  Frenchman,  died  in 
actual  starvation.  They  who  stole  his  ideas  rolled  in  wealth. 
In  1793  Eli  Whitney  revolutionized  cotton  culture  and  cotton 
industries  by  inventing  the  cotton  gin.  He  enriched  millions 
of  men  but  made  not  a  dollar  for  himself. 

Davis  W.  Entriken  died  at  Kenneth  Square,  Pennsylvania, 
on  the  31st  of  July,  1919,  in  the  94th  year  of  his  age.  For 
years  he  struggled  to  invent  a  successful  mowing  and  harvest- 
ing machine.  At  last  he  produced  invaluable  primary  devices 
and  wrought  as  great  a  revolution  in  the  grain  fields  of  the 
North  as  the  cotton  gin  had  wrought  in  the  plantations  of  the 
South,  for  his  vital  ideas  are  used  in  all  the  mowing  and  reap- 
ing machines  that  are  sold  to-day.  Toiling  in  poverty,  he  se- 
cured no  letters  of  patent,  but  was  gulled  by  the  verbal  promise 
of  a  royalty  of  $20  for  each  machine  manufactured.  Had  he 
been  properly  secured,  his  share  of  the  spoils  would  have 
been  mere  than  $30,000,000.  He  was  not  secured  at  all,  but 
died  in  poverty  and  obscurity. 

In  July,  1915,  a  communication  appeared  in  an  Omaha 
paper,  over  a  signature,  complaining  that  the  secrets  of  in- 
ventors are  constantly  sold  from  the  Patent  Office  at  Wash- 
ington City  to  wealthy  corporations  that  vastly  profit  thereby. 
Particulars  were  given  in  corroboration. 

A  man  to  me  unknown  wrote  these  lines:  "Read  the 
tragedies  of  invention.  Men  of  superior  mental  power  study 
out  great  inventions  to  lighten  labor.  They  have  faith  in 
themselves  and  in  the  machines  they  work  on.  They  toil  for 
weary  years,  taxing  splendid  powers  to  the  limit.  They  en- 
danger health  or  ruin  it.  They  endure  the  direst  poverty; 
their  families  suffer.  When  toil  and  effort  have  been  ex- 
pended, and  hardships  have  been  borne  that  exceed  belief, 
they  perfect  their  process  or  invention.  Then  a  richer  man 
steps  in.  tears  from  their  nerveless  fingers  the  coveted  prize, 
reaps  the  reward,  and  with  brutal  laughter  casts  out  the 
ruined  inventor.  Again  and  again  has  this  tragedy  been 


PRO  SK    ADDENDA  315 

i."  It  is  the  same  in  literary  fields.  T  have  seen  the 
world  shower  plaudits  and  honors  en  persons  who  needlessly 
plunder  .1  me.  It  is  idle  to  complain.  You  will  only  be 
laughed  at. 

In  the  District  Court  at  Lincoln,  Neb.,  in  June,  1921, 
James  L.  Hand  made  claim  that  the  officers  of  a  certain  com- 
pany named  had  damaged  him  to  the  extent  of  $50,000  by 
"fraudulently  discovering  a  secret  process  for  making  bat- 
which  he  had  invented  and  patented.  Result  of  the 
trial  unknown  to  me. 

Edison  has  been  kept  at  law  continually  to  even  partially 
protect  his  inventions.  He  has  spent  several  fortunes  in 
trying  to  do  so. 

In  February,  1915,  a  board  of  examiners  of  the  U.  S.  Patent 
Office,  decided  that  General  H.  Curtiss  of  the  regular  army 
did  not  invent  the  hydro-aeroplane,  but  that  a  poor  cabinet 
maker  of  Staten  Island,  X.  Y.,  named  Albert  S.  Janin,  was 
the  real  inventor. 

I  could  fill  pages  with  data  like  this— fill  a  whole  volume.  It 
is  with  books  as  it  is  with  inventions. 

Articles  appear  occasionally  in  the  daily  press  lauding 
the  great  demand  that  exists  for  book  manuscripts,  and  prais- 
ing the  tempting  field  open  fo  new  writers.  The  "adviser" 
of  a  prominent  publishing  house  estimates  that  "of  the  great 
of  manuscripts  annually  submitted  to  American  pub- 
lishers, only  one-and-one-half  per  cent  are  published.  This 
does  not  mean  that  the  others  are  worthless,  but — .  It  takes 
a  sale  of  about  five  thousand  copies  to  pay  expenses,  and 
such  a  sale  is  certain,  publication  is  not  worth  while. 
A  successful  author  dictates  almost  any  sort  of  terms,  and  is 
often  the  object  of  keen  rivalry  on  the  part  of  publishers,  and 
often  receives  large  sums  in  advance  royalties." 

Why  is  there  such  a  ravenous  demand  for  manuscripts? 
In  some  cases,  it  is  to  secure  fresh  and  "marketable"  ideas 
that  may  be  handed  over  to  writers  of  established  fame,  who 
will  promptly  get  them  into  print,  and  thereby  own  them. 
"Cash  paid  for  bright  ideas,"  is  an  advertisement  that  often 
appears  in  Xew  York  papers.  A  good  book,  skillfully  re- 
vamped l.y  on.-  of  these  "successful  authors,"  would  be  greedily 
seized  t  y  an  unscrupulous  publisher.  Stenographers  and 
typewriters  can  take  the  cream  of  an  unpublished  work  in 
twenty-four  hours.  The  copyright  law  affords  no  protection 
to  unpublished  matter.  rnprinted  stuff  can  be  plundered 
with  impunity.  Subordinates  of  a  publisher  (without  his 
knowledge  or  consent )  often  resort  to  such  practices. 

An  Hiiiu.T  (  mployed  for  the  purpose  perceives  that  a  book 
has  force,  originality,  interest,  brilliancy,  new  ideas — market- 
in  <>f  all  sorts — but  nobody  has  heard  of  the  writer. 
He  has  roiled  for  years,  perhaps,  to  produce  this  book.  Yet  it 
is  not  entirely  up  to  the  status  demanded  because  the  author 
has  no  "name."  The  book  needs  a  "name"  attached  to  it,  and 
it  will  then  make  a  hit  and  make  money.  How  simple  a 


316  SONGSOFAMANWHOFAILED 

matter  to  take  the  life,  the  cream  of  the  book — have  the  vital 
essence  reproduced  in  a  little  different  form  by  a  writer  of 
fame  and  popularity.  "There  is  money  in  it" — for  the  pub- 
lisher, and  money  is  what  he  is  after.  The  person  defrauded 
has  no  legal  remedy,  and  the  public  will  laugh  at  his 
"ridiculous  complaints" — if  he  is  fool  enough  to  make  any. 
To  counterfeit  a  book  is  easier  than  to  counterfeit  a  coin; 
is  not  dangerous  in  the  least,  and  is  often  a  thousand  times 
more  profitable.  I  have  seen  the  American  people  shower 
adulations  on  persons  whom  I  knew  had  done  such  work. 

It  will  be  a  consolation  to  disappointed  authors  to  know 
that  reefs  and  shoals  and  losses  often  come  to  publishers. 
They  also  have  their  trials.  When  the  famous  Beecher-Tilton 
scandal  suddenly  jarred  New  York  uity  to  its  foundation 
stones,  Henry  Ward  Beecher  was  under  contract  to  write  a 
"Life  of  Christ"  for  a  leading  subscription  book  concern.  A 
"life  of  Christ" — a  very  good  one — was  already  in  existence 
in  the  New  Testament,  and  was  accepted  by  millions  of  people 
as  "the  Word  of  God."  Still,  it  was  thought  Mr.  Beecher 
might  make  some  improvements  on  the  literary  task  of  the 
Author  of  the  Universe.  One  volume  was  issued  and  had 
a  large  sale.  Mr.  Beecher  was  engaged  on  the  second  volume 
when  the  great  Tilton  scandal  exploded.  The  frantic  pub- 
lisher rushed  to  the  studio  of  the  great  divine,  and  with 
tears  exclaimed:  "O,  Beecher!  Beecher!  This  will  knock 
the  Life  of  Christ  higher  than  a  kite." 

The  second  volume  was  never  issued. 

Faith  in  booksellers  caused  the  financial  ruin  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  and  made  his  last  days  miserable.  Publishers  are 
doubtless  no  greedier  than  the  hacks  they  often  employ.  The 
law  of  "the  survival  of  the  fittest,"  keen  competition,  neces- 
sities of  the  trade,  originate  many  of  the  evils  complained 
of.  A  few  years  before  the  outbreak  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion a  party  of  peasants  parleyed  with  a  cruel,  exacting 
nobleman. 

"You  know,  my  lord,  that  we  must  live,"  they  told  him. 

"Well,  really,  I  don't  see  the  necessity  of  it,"  was  the 
chilly  answer. 

The  publisher  must  live,  no  matter  how  many  authors 
his  Juggernaut  rolls  over.  Byron  once  gave  his  publisher  a 
splendidly  bound  copy  of  the  Bible.  It  was  paraded  on  every 
occasion  by  the  happy  recipient.  The  latter,  one  day,  was 
horrified  to  discover  that  the  bard  had  changed  the  fortieth 
verse  of  the  eighteenth  chapter  of  St.  John  so  as  to  have 
it  read: 

"Now  Barabbas  was  a  publisher." 

In  Arkansaw  "befo'  cle  wan"  a  traveler,  on  reaching  a 
small  town,  found  a  general  fight  in  progress.  Dismounting, 
he  inquired  of  a  badly  damaged  citizen: 

"Podner,  is  this  a  free  fight?" 

"O,  yes,"  was  the  answer.     "Go  right  in,  if  you  feel  like  it." 

The  traveler  hitched  his  pony,  whipped  off  his  coat,  chose 


PRO  Si:    ADDENDA  317 

an  antagonist,  and  joined  in  the  "dreadful  revelry."  Some- 
time afterwards,  when  general  exhaustion  had  ended  the  fray, 
the  traveler,  covered  with  blood  and  much  pounded  up,  ex- 
•'l  to  the  people  around  his  sincere  thanks  for  the  en- 
joyment he  had  had  in  the  riot,  and  praised  the  spirit  of 
ility  that  allowed  a  perfect  stranger  to  take  part  in 
a  free  fight  on  the  same  status  as  the  oldest  inhabitant.  I 
have  sometimes  thought  the  Copyright  Law  should  be  abol- 
isht'd.  and  a  Free  Grab  declared  at  subjects,  ideas,  and  occa- 
sionally at  language,  whereby  the  nameless  writer  would  have 
a  much  better  show  than  he  has  at  present. 

I  once  replied  to  a  New  York  advertisement,  and  forwarded 
the  testimonials  demanded.  In  a  few  days  I  was  invited 
to  an  interview  at  a  private  residence.  The  advertiser  brought 
out  a  very  large  manuscript  I  was  only  permitted  to  glance 
at  a  few  moments.  As  I  could  hastily  gather,  it  was  a  nar- 
rative of  maritime  adventure  in  all  parts  of  the  world. 

"I  represent  other  parties,"  the  advertiser  said.  "This  book 
doesn't  suit  us  exactly.  The  material  is  good,  but  we  want 
the  work  reproduced  in  better  style.  You  will  work  in  this 
room  during  ordinary  business  hours,  with  a  stenographer 
and  typewriter  to  assist,  if  you  wish.  Have  you  dictated  mat- 
ter often?  And  what  could  you  do  the  job  for?  In  what 
manner  would  you  like  to  be  paid?" 

I  was  very  poor — needed  money  badly,  but,  without  giving 
any  reasons,  I  declined  to  do  the  job  at  all.  I  knew  it  was 
to  rob  another  man's  manuscript,  and  was  unwilling  to  impose 
on  him  the  bitter  pangs  I  had  several  times  suffered  myself. 

On  March  2?,,  1917,  the  Kansas  City  "Times"  republished 
this  paragraph  from  the  New  York  "Globe": 

"In  the  Municipal  Court  of  Xew  York  City,  Dale  Carnagey 
has  recovered  $197.15  for  services  in  writing  speeches  for 
Mrs.  Elmer  E.  Black,  a  prominent  Pacifist  and  club  woman. 
His  origual  bill  was  $243.  He  coached  her  for  the  platform. 
Mr.  Carnagey  is  a  lecturer  in  halls  of  the  Young  Men's  Chris- 
tian Association,  an  instructor  in  public  speaking  in  the 
Brooklyn  Institute  of  Arts  and  Sciences,  etc.,  etc." 

William  Henry  Thompson  wrote  these  splendid  lines  about 
the  battle  of  Gettysburg: 

"They    smote    and    fell,    who   set    the    Bars 
Against  the  progress  of  the  Stars. 
They    stood,   who   saw   the   future   come 
On  through  the  fight's  delirium! 
They  smote  and  stood,  who  held  the  hope 
Of  nations'  on  that  slippery  slope 
Amid    the   cheers   of   Christendom. 
God  lives!   He  forged  the  iron  will 
That  clutched  and  held  that  trembling  hill. 
God  lives  and  reigns!    He  built  and  lent 
The    heights    for    Freedom's    battlement 
Where  floats  her  flag  in  triumph  still." 


318  SONGS   OF   A    MAN   WHO    FAILED 

Admiration  for  the  poetic  author  is  dampened  somewhat 
by  the  fact  that  he  was  born  in  Georgia,  and  served  throughout 
the  Civil  War  in  the  Confederate  army.  Renegades,  mercen- 
aries, hacks,  are  ready  to  write  anything,  do  anything— for 
money.  In  this  way  a  distinctive  American  literature  is  being 
obliterated.  The  only  excuse  that  may  be  offered  is  the 
struggle  for  bread.  On  that  score  some  leniency  may  be  given. 

Concerning  mercenary  bards  Byron  wrote: 

"Let  such  forego  the  poet's  sacred  name, 
Who  rack  their  brains  for  lucre  not  for  fame; 
Low  may  they  sink  to  merited  contempt, 
And  scorn  remunerate  the  mean  attempt; 
Such  be  their  meed,  such  be  the  just  reward 
Of  prostituted  muse  and  hireling  bard." 

A  Nebraska  lady  complained  to  her  country  editor  as  fol- 
lows: In  passing  through  Kansas  City  she  saw  a  lot  of 
nice  books  offered  at  low  prices,  and  bought  half  a  dozen.  On 
reaching  home  she  was  vexed  to  find  that  the  novels  were 
shamefully  mutilated.  Whole  blocks  of  pages  were  dropped 
out,  here  and  there,  and  in  every  case  the  story  was  spoiled. 
The  explanation  was  that  the  copyright  on  the  books  had 
expired,  and  that  these  piratical  editions,  rudely  chopped  down 
to  a  uniform  size,  not  only  swindled  the  buyer  but  marred  the 
fame  of  the  writer. 

"When  one  of  these  nameless  Bohemians  sells  a  novel  or 
story,  what  does  he  usually  get  for  it?"  I  once  asked  a 
New  Yorker  situated  to  know. 

"O,  very,  little,"  was  the  answer.  "Two  hundred  dollars 
or  so.  The  manuscript  is  then  a  piece  of  property,  to  be  dealt 
with  as  the  new  owner  likes.  Any  name  may  be  placed  on 
the  title  page  as  author,  according  to  circumstances.  The 
book  goes  to  the  printers,  and  the  author  goes  to  the  Bowery 
beer  halls  in  search  of  happiness.  I  know  very  good  story 
writers  who  receive  regular  salaries  of  several  thousand  dol 
lars  a  year.  They  wear  out  in  time,  however;  their  books 
cease  to  sell,  and  they  finally  join  the  great  army  of  hack 
writers  that  scribble  for  bread." 

As  a  business,  a  profession,  a  source  of  revenue,  a  way  to 
make  a  living — the  writing  of  books  does  not  pay.  It  is 
unprofitable.  The  same  amount  of  talent,  ambition,  energy, 
patience  and  murderous  hard  work,  applied  to  the  ordinary 
avocations  of  life,  will  pay  vastly  better,  in  most  cases.  A 
few  succeed,  often  by  accident.  The  rest  have  their  labor 
for  their  pains.  It  is  like  becoming  a  Field  Marshal  in  a 
great  war.  One  man  is  a  Marshal,  and  hundreds  of  thousands 
fill  nameless  graves.  No  one  should  write  a  book  (especially 
a  book  of  rhyme)  unless  he  is  rich,  and  has  nothing  else  to 
do,  and  merely  writes  for  amusement,  or — unless  he  was  born 
to  write  and  simply  can't  keep  from  writing,  and  is  content 
to  do  nothing  else.  "Poets  are  born,  not  made."  "Literature 
is  a  cane,  not  a  crutch." 


PROSE    AH  DEN  I)  A  319 

Dr.  Franklin's  "Poor  Richard"  made  this  admission:  "Not 
a  tenth  part  of  the  wisdom  ascribed  to  me  was  my  own,  but 
was  rather  the  gleanings  I  had  made  of  the  sense  of  all  ages 
and  nations." 

In  the  "Century"  of  March,  1915,  Thomas  L.  Masson  com- 
plained of  an  article  in  the  previous  January  number  of  that 
magazine  and  said:  "The  man  who  wrote  it  imposed  on  you. 
His  talent  is  better  than  his  morals.  The  story  is  very  old. 
1  refer  you  to  my  book,  etc." 

Nineteen  hundred  years  ago  Pliny  wrote:  "In  comparing 
various  authors  I  find  that  some  of  the  most  noted  ones, 
and  latest  ones,  have  transcribed,  word  for  word,  from  former 
works,  without  making  any  acknowledgement  whatever."  Any 
book  pirate  may  claim  to  belong  to  a  "very  ancient  family." 

Captain  James  Grant,  one  of  Scotland's  brilliant  writers — 
author  of  "The  Romance  Of  War"  and  fifty  other  splendid 
military  stories — died  penniless  on  May  5,  1887.  The  fate 
of  "Ouida"  (Louise  de  la  Ramee)  was  similar. 

The  Philadelphia  "Ledger"  says:  "A  Philadelphia  con- 
noisseur has  returned  from  England  with  a  manuscript  of 
Shelley's  for  which  he  paid  $8,500.  The  total  amount  Shelley 
received  in  his  lifetime  from  the  publishers  of  his  poetry 
was  about  $250.  As  one  reads  of  the  fantastic  sums  that 
change  hands  for  books,  manuscripts,  pictures  and  other 
works  of  art,  one  is  moved  to  moralize  upon  the  difference  a 
small  part  of  the  price  would  have  made  to  the  artist  in  his 
lifetime.  Chatterton  poisoned  himself  ere  he  was  eighteen  to 
escape  slow  starvation,  since  he  was  too  proud  to  disclose 
his  utter  penury;  and  now  a  few  words  from  his  hand  would 
bring  enough  to  support  him  for  years.  In  the  last  year  of 
Schubert's  life  six  of  his  songs  were  sold  to  a  publisher  for 
20  cents  apiece.  When  he  died,  not  32  years  old,  his  unpub- 
lished music  was  valued  at  $2  and  his  whole  estate  was 
appraised  at  about  $12.  Septimius  Winner,  of  Philadelphia, 
sold  "Listen  to  the  Mocking  Bird"  to  the  publishers  for  $35. 
They  made  $3,000,000  out  of  it!" 

"Lives  of  great  men  remind  us  that  posterity  has  succeeded 
in  capitalizing  patriarchs  who  in  their  time  found  it  hard 
to  live. 

Seven  cities  claimed  great  Homer  dead 

Through   which  the  living  Homer  begged  his  bread." 

Hoffman's  "Variations  of  the  Mocking  Bird,"  an  instru- 
mental piece,  was  as  popular  as  the  song.  1  saw  and  heard 
Hoffman  render  it  on  a  piano,  and  it  was  beautiful.  He  was 
a  victim  of  booze,  and  a  publisher  got  the  money. 

Steven  Foster,  author  of  "My  Old  Kentucky  Home,"  and 
scores  of  other  popular  songs — some  of  world-wide  note — died 
a  penniless  outcast. 

1  have  always  striven  to  avoid  anything  in  the  form  of 
imitation.  So  far  as  possible,  I  have  sought  to  be  original, 
relying  on  my  own  modest  literary  inventions.  If  I  had  to 


3 JO  SONGS   OF   A    MAN   WHO    FAILED 

live  life  over  again,  however,  I  would  plunder  everything 
good  that  fell  in  my  way,  for  I  have  seen  scoundrels  prosper, 
and  have  -seen  the  world  eager  to  heap  wealth  and  honors 
on  them.  It's  the  kind  of  a  world  we  live  in.  You  can't 
change  it  much. 

William  Henry  Ireland  of  London,  Eng.,  deserves  to  rank 
as  the  king  bee  of  book  pirates.  At  the  age  of  seventeen 
he  began  a  series  of  Shakespearean  forgeries.  He  forged 
a  deed  of  gift  to  one  of  his  ancestors  of  ''original  manu- 
scripts" of  Shakespeare;  also  a  letter  of  Shakespeare  to 
"Anne  Hatherway,"  a  letter  of  Queen  Elizabeth  to  Shakespeare 
and  the  reply  to  the  same,  as  well  as  a  great  number  of  "manu- 
script plays."  These  counterfeit  productions  sold  for  good 
sums,  and  book-and-curio  dealers  have  not  yet  got  quite 
through  buying  the  bogus  productions  of  Ireland's  nimble 
pen.  He  retired  on  a  fortune,  to  murmur  with  Puck:  "What 
fools  these  mortals  be." 

For  a  life  time  Joaquin  Miller  posed  as  one  of  Walker's 
fiilibusters  in  Nicaragua.  I  had  it  from  his  own  lips  that 
he  served  with  Walker  and  was  wounded  in  battle.  In  1875, 
in  Nicaragua,  I  daily  met  filibusters  who  fought  under  Walker. 
They  had  read  Miller's  works,  and  had  no  unfriendliness  for 
him  but,  to  my  surprise,  united  in  saying  that  he  had  never 
served  in  \Valker's  army.  The  truth  is  that  he  was  never 
in  Nicaragua  in  his  life,  nor  in  any  part  of  Central  America, 
nor  in  South  America.  When  Walker  was  fighting  in  the 
tropics,  Miller  was  living  with  squaws  in  the  foothills  of 
Oregon. 

Mother  Shipton's  prophecies  have  long  been  famous — as 
famous  as  the  prophecies  of  Daniel.  She  foretold  the  steam- 
ship, the  railroad,  telegraph  lines,  automobiles,  air-ships, 
submarines — almost  everything  up  to  date.  She  only  missed  it 
concerning  the  year  18.81,  when  the  world  was  to  have  come 
to  an  "end."  Perhaps  she  miscalculated,  or  has  been  in- 
correctly quoted.  She  may  have  said  1921.  Now  comes  an 
iconoclast  who  proves  that  a  scribbler  in  London,  to  get  some 
filthy  lucre,  wrote  Mother  Shipton's  prophecies  five  hundred 
years  after  the  old  lady  was  dead. 

Here's  a  picture  for  you — a  picture  from  life. 

Think  of  a  nameless,  homeless,  friendless  writer,  often  hun 
gry  and  penniless,  calling  to  account  a  veritable  monster  of 
steel,  electricity,  steam,  iron,  plate-metal,  countless  piles  and 
towers  of  mighty  machinery,  hordes  of  intellectual  slaves, 
bushels  of  money — feeding  pirated  literature  to  thousands  of 
newspapers  and  millions  and  millions  of  readers.  I  once  suf- 
fered from  the  depredations  of  a  plant  that  has  branch  offices 
in  twenty-two  cities;  employs  editors,  artists,  costly  engravers, 
by  the  score;  has  whole  floors  crowded  with  type-setting  ma- 
chines, daily  consumes  tons  of  iron,  lead,  copper,  zinc  and 
other  metals,  turning  them  into  plate-matter,  vignettes,  sil- 
houettes, color  plates,  line  and  half-tone  cuts,  Benday  shadings, 
etc.,  etc.  How  could  an  almost  destitute  person  maintain 


PROSK    APDHNDA  321 

argument   with    such    an    octopus?      Talk   about   Juggernauts 
and  Wallenstein  monsters. 

"Might  is  right" — in  actual  practice.     I  have  found  it  so. 

Some  little  time  after  publishing  his  book  about  Judith  and 
Holofernes — "really  a  new  poem,  written  on  broader  lines"- 
Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  became  obessed  with  the  idea -that  he 
was  something  of  a  Shakespeare.  He  dramatized  his  poem, 
and  with  a  flourish  of  trumpets  personally  superintended  the 
staging  of  it  in  Chicago.  He  there  boastfully  declared:  "My 
idea  of  Judith  is  not  exactly  that  of  the  apocryphal  woman — 
a  cold-blooded  abstraction,  a  polished  instrument — but  a  woman 
with  nerves,  with  heart;  a  true  woman.  The  old  Judith  was 
vindictive,  brutal,  fierce;  no  better  than  the  rest."  In  spite 
of  the  "puffs"  of  literary  friends,  lavish  outlays  of  money  and 
prodigal  advertising,  his  "drama"  was  a  failure.  Bitterly 
disappointed  he  returned  to  Boston,  and  died  a  few  years 
afterwards.  Worry  is  said  to  have  shortened  his  days.  In 
the  latter  part  of  life  Mark  Twain  was  intensely  disappointed 
because  he  had  "never  soared  to  the  higher  fields  of  litera- 
ture," but  had  been  content  to  be  "merely  a  funny  man." 
Bret  Harte  exiled  himself  to  England,  and  died  there,  because 
he  thought  the  American  people  did  not  sufficiently  appre- 
ciate his  productions.  It  is  trite  to  refer  to  King  Solomon 
and  his  pronouncement  that  everything  ends  in  "vanity  and 
vexation  of  spirit."  Byron  declared  "life  a  cheat."  Writers 
who  have  made  of  life  a  complete  fizzle,  are  often  more  con- 
tented in  old  age  than  the  big  winners.  Indifference  to 
praise  or  blame  contributes  to  this. 

As  a  prayer  of  Judith,  this  quotation  is  from  the  fir?!, 
version  of  Aldri^h's  epic: 

"O  save  me  from  him,   Lord!    but   save   me  most 
From  mine  own  sinful  self;   for  lo!    this  man, 
Though  viler  than  the  vilest  thing  that  walks, 
A  worshiper  of  fire  and  senseless  stone, 
Slayer  of  children,  enemy  of  God — 
He,  even  he;    O  Lord,   forgive   my   sin, 
Hath  by  his  heathen  beauty   moved   me  more 
Than   should  a  daughter  of   Judea   be  moved, 
Save  by  the  noblest.    Clothe  me  with  thy  love, 
And   rescue   me,   and    let   me   trample  down 
All  evil  thought,  and  from  my  baser  self 
Climb  up  to  thee,  that  after  times  may  say: 

'She  tore  the  guilty  passion  from  her  soul — 
Judith  the  pure,   the  faithful  unto  death!" 

Machine  verse — only  trash! 

Xot  the  kind  of  reverie  Charlotte  Corday  had,  nor  Joan  of 
Arc:  nor  Judith,  either.  Xot  the  reverie  of  heroic  Woman- 
hood facing  death  to  save  a  nation. 

21 


SONGS   OF   A   MAX   WHO   FAILED 

In  1897  Philip  J.  Bailey,  famous  writer  of  "Festus,"  said 
that  only  thirteen  editions  of  his  poetical  work  had  been 
sold  in  England,  but  all  these  had  paid  him  royalties.  In 
America  thirty  editions  had  been  published  and  sold,  but  out 
of  the  whole  lot  he  had  never  received  a  penny  of  royalty. 
When  Kipling  first  came  into  notice,  piratical  editions  of  his 
works  were  promptly  published  at  Boston  and  New  YorK 
City,  but  he  received  no  financial  recompense,  and  there  was 
no  law  that  would  reach  the  perpetrators.  In  his  latter  days 
Charles  Dickens  said:  "If  I  had  life  to  live  over  again  1 
would  be  my  own  publisher,"  and  yet  he  made  close  bargains 
with  publishers,  and  so  did  Tennyson. 

On  leaving  New  York  City  just  after  the  nauseating  Harry 
Thaw  trial,  Hon.  D.  M.  Demas  published  a  rime  about  the 
big  city  that  read  thus: 

"Vulgar  of  manner,  overfed, 

Overdressed   and   underbred, 

Heartless,  Godless,  Hell's  delight, 

Rude  by  day  and  lewd  by  night. 

Pander  to  the  dissolute, 

Ruled  by  boss  and  prostitute, 

Purple-robed  and  purple-clad, 
.  Rotten,  raving,  money   mad; 

A  squirming  herd  in  money's  rush, 

A  wilderness  of  human  flesh, 

Crazed  by  avarice,  lust  and  rum, 

New  York,  thy  name's  delirium." 

With  the  name  of  Mr.  Demas  attached,  the  canticle  went 
the  rounds  of  the  press.  A  long  time  afterwards  Wm.  H. 
Anderson,  State  Superintendent  of  an  anti-liquor  league, 
printed  a  declaration  that  Mr.  Demas  was  not  the  author  of  the 
distich,  so  worded  as  to  leave  the  impression  that  Mr.  Ander- 
son was.  This  confusion  not  being  enough,  it  was  subse- 
quently claimed  that  "the  Ode  to  New  York"  was  written 
by  Hon.  Byron  R.  Newton.  It  was  also  explained  that  when 
Wayne  B.  Wheeler  read  the  Ode  at  a  public  banquet,  he  did 
not  claim  to  be  the  author  of  it,  but  only  read  it  as  an 
appropriate  recitation.  I  leave  to  the  reader  the  task  of 
finding  the  real,  simon-pure  uncrowned  poet. 

In  the  autumn  of  1919,  the  "Un-Partizan  Review"  of  New 
York  City  published  a  story  entitled  "Unto  Others."  The 
editor  soon  received  letters  saying  that  the  story  had  been 
revamped  from  a  recently  produced  French  play.  With 
careless  bonhomie  he  cited  the  example  of  Shakespeare,  and 
added : 

"We  suspect  that  all  writers  of  fiction  do  much  the  same 
thing.  If  anybody  wants  to  work  up  for  us  a  good  story  on 
the  basis  of  any  existing  plot  in  literature,  we'll  give  it  at- 
tention." 

A  poor  defense.  Is  this  literary  justice?  Will  it  promote 
a  distinctly  American  literature,  or  insure  the  safety  of  un- 


PRO  SI-     A  DDK  XI)  A  323 

pul  lisht'd  manuscripts  in  the  hands  of  booksellers?  We 
think  not.  It  will  bent  lit  book  hacks,  pirates,  and  revampers, 
1  ut  no  one  else.  The  reader  will  be  swindled,  and  confidence 
will  be  lost  in  a  publication  that  issues  such  stuff.  Such  meth- 
cds  were  followed  by  Lawrence  Sterne,  of  the  "Sentimental 
Journey."  Robbing,  plundering  and  revamping  with  skill,  he 
1  t-caine  the  idol  of  the  British  public.  His  works  are  classics, 
but  much  of  his  best  literature  was  stolen  from  writers  of 
little  fame  who  often  needed  bread.  It  was  not  a  case  of  the 
•'survival  of  the  fittest,"  but  a  matter  of  opportunity  and  mean- 
Book  pirates  and  literary  vandals! 

Lcng  years  ago  a  Chicago  lady  sent  me  a  farewell  madrigal 
that  read: 

"O,    Clinton,    did    you    say 

You  were  gwine  to  go  away 

For  to  have  a  little  time  in  Colorado? 

Way  out  in   Colorado 

Where  the  faro  table  grows; 

'Where  adown  the  desperado 

The  rippling  Bourbon  flows. 

O,    Clinton,    don't    you    stay 

Where    the    cattle    are    so    gay, 

And  the  bronco-busters  play 

Way  out  in  Colorado." 

I  was  much  pleased  until  a  cynical  friend  told  me  he  had 
heard  a  song  "something  like  it"  in  a  neighboring  vaudeville 
hall  of  no  great  pretensions.  The  "substitution  evil"  illus- 
trated. 

In  1903  the  Philadelphia  "Record"  gave  space  to  a  few 
bitter  remarks  some  one  (unnamed)  made  concerning  a  pub- 
lishing enterprise  (unnamed).  The  writer  badly  dealt  with 
was  the  noted  Charlotte  M.  Braeme.  The  speaker  said: 
"They  not  only  stole  her  books  but  they  stole  her  fame. 
Transposing  her  initials,  they  printed  her  books  as  having 
b^en  written  by  Bertha  M.  Clay.  There  is  no  such  person." 
The  books  were  sold  by  hundreds  of  thousands,  and  broken 
down  literary  wrecks  were  kept  busy  at  poor  pay  scrawling 
off  additional  stories  that  went  into  print  as  having  been 
written  by  the  mythical  Bertha  M.  Clay.  There  seemed  to  be 
no  remedy  for  the  outrage. 

In  August,  1898,  Charles  Garvice,  an  English  story  writer, 
issued  an  "Open  Letter  To  The  American  Public,"  complain- 
ing that  his  books  were  being  published  in  this  country  not 
only  without  authority,  but  in  a  mutilated  form.  "In  several 
cases,"  he  declared,  "the  latter  half  of  the  novel  was  not 
written  by  me  at  all."  Of  another  work  bearing  his  name 
he  said:  "I  did  not  write  a  word  of  this  book.  I  repeat  it. 
I  did  not  write  the  work.  They  have  no  authority  to  print 
anything  of  mine." 

Well  might  Byron  have  it  read: 

"Xow  Barabbas  was  a  publisher." 


324  SONGS   OF   A   MAN   WHO   FAILED 

During  the  late  war  with  Germany  a  sincere  and  well- 
meaning  man  published  a  book  entitled  "The  Finished  Mys- 
tery." I  have  forgotten  his  name,  but  he  and  his  book  are 
well  known.  His  work  attracted  wide  attention.  It  was  well 
written.  His  ideas  were  chiefly  based  on  the  pretended 
prophecies  of  Daniel,  and  some  other  parts  of  the  Scriptures. 
The  world-war  was  the  fabled  Armageddon;  the  second  coming 
of  Christ  was  near  at  hand,  and  the  end  of  the  world  also.  One 
day  I  read  of  the  seizure  and  suppression  of  this  book  by  the 
government.  Copies  were  thrown  out  of  the  mails  everywhere, 
and  seized  wherever  found.  The  book  was  declared  to  be 
a  treasonable,  disloyal,  seditious  publication,  and  the  author 
did  well  to  escape  a  penitentiary.  One  day  I  happened  to  see 
a  great  stack  of  these  books  in  a  rather  unusual  place,  and 
picked  up  one  of  them.  On  inquiry  I  was  told  that  the  books 
I  saw  were  in  the  custody  of  the  Law,  in  accordance  with 
orders  from  Washington.  I  asked  for  one  of  them,  and  it  was 
given  to  me.  That  evening  I  read  it  through,  and  to  my 
surprise  I  found  not  a  single  disloyal,  seditious  or  treasonable 
sentiment  in  it.  It  contained  theories  and  superstitious  ideas 
I  did  not  believe  a  word  of,  but  its  suppression  by  the  govern- 
ment was  a  most  despotic  act,  a  gross  injustice,  and  a  ruth- 
less violation  of  the  freedom  of  the  press.  A  lot  of  pious 
fanatics  had  found  something  in  the  book  that  came  in 
conflict  with  a  few  of  their  chosen  dogmas,  and  had  flocked 
to  Woodrow  Wilson  and  clamored  for  the  suppression  of  the 
book.  Without  examining  the  work,  or  caring  anything  about 
the  merits  of  the  case,  but  merely  to  popularize  himself,  he 
exercised  his  "war  powers"  and  suppressed  the  book.  This 
he  did  "in  his  own  name  and  by  his  own  proper  authority." 
It  was  a  crime  against  the  freedom  of  the  press. 

Before  James  Whitcomb  Riley  became  famous,  he  went  to 
"market"  with  a  "newly  discovered  poem  by  Edgar  Allan 
Poe."  It  was  accepted  and  published,  and  went  the  rounds 
of  the  press,  but  when  the  truth  came  out,  Riley  was  severely 
scored  by  no  less  a  personage  than  Henry  W.  Longfellow. 
Lew  Wallace  was  accused  of  writing  "Ben  Hur"  from  a  half- 
forgotten  novel,  "The  Captain  Of  The  Janizaries."  A  very 
noted  American  who  published  a  noteworthy  book,  was  charged 
with  having  drawn  much  inspiration  for  it  from  a  Polish 
author  who  died  in  a  mad  house.  I  saw  one  such  criticism' 
-in  the  Chicago  "Journal." 

When  President  Grant  left  the  White  House,  after  years 
of  public  service,  he  made  a  trip  around  the  world,  receiving 
high  honors  everywhere  from  kings,  princes,  governments  and 
peoples.  The  official  historian  of  the  trip  was  John  Russell 
Young,  a  journalist  of  high  repute.  It  was  announced  that 
Mr.  Young's  letters  to  a  New  York  newspaper  would  be  re- 
produced in  book  form  on  the  return  of  the  distinguished 
party.  The  book  pirates  got  busy,  revamped  Young's  letters 
as  fast  as  he  printed  them,  and  when  he  got  back,  no  less 
than  four  versions  of  "General  Grant's  Trip  Around  The 


PROSF.    ADDENDA  325 

World"  deluged  the  book  market.  .Mr.  Young  got  out  a  book 
also,  but  was  behind  time  with  it,  and  lost  money.  The  well 
km  wn  writer  Hadeuu  claimed  to  have  written  General  Grant's 
Memoirs.  The  General  had  lost  a  fortune  in  the  wholly 
strange  mazes  of  Wall  Street;  he  was  stricken  with  a  malady 
that  was  certain  to  soon  end  his  life;  and,  in  this  weakened 
condition,  he  was  making  an  effort  heroic  to  complete  his 
book,  and  leave  something  to  his  impoverished  family.  That 
Badeau  rendered  him  some  assistance  is  conceded,  but  General 
Grant  wrote  the  book,  and  refused  to  comply  with  financial 
demands  that  were  considered  excessive. 

1  will  now  modestly  refer  to  a  few  of  my  own  mishaps, 
occurring  in  a  period  of  forty  years. 

I  had  two  large  prose  works  about  the  Civil  War,  completely 
plundered,  revamped,  and  published  piratically. 

Eighty  military  poems  of  mine  about  the  Civil  War  changed 
hands  feloniously,  and  an  imitative  volume  of  no  literary 
merit  was  published. 

In  1$99  a  military  novel  of  mine  was  published  at  New 
York  City,  in  cheap  form,  and  had  a  quick  and  wide  sale. 
The  publisher  then  went  into  bankruptcy,  and  a  long  time 
afterwards  I  received  a  "first  dividend"  of  $8.11. 

Afterwards  I  wrote  a  military  romance  concerning  the 
American  filibusters  in  Cuba  previous  to  the  Spanish-Amer- 
ican war.  While  drinking  in  Baltimore  I  lost  the  first  half  of 
the  book.  1  then  re-wrote  the  whole  book,  revised  it  with  care, 
and  while  en  route  to  Xew  York  City  with  it,  I  lost  it  in 
Washington  City.  Booze!  and  four  years  of  work  gone. 

I  next  wrote  "Martial  Scenes  In  Central  America,"  a  long 
narrative  covering  the  trials,  heroism  and  conquests  of  Amer- 
ican filibusters  under  Walker  and  other  noted  leaders.  I 
published  ten  or  twelve  articles  from  this  book  in  the  Sunday 
edition  of  the  San  Francisco  "Chronicle,"  but  the  whole  book 
was  afterwards  lost  at  Des  Moines,  Iowa.  Drink! 

On  three  different  occasions  I  lost  important  poetical 
manuscripts,  but  had  the  good  fortune  to  have  partial  dupli- 
cates. 

When  the  San  Francisco  earthquake  occurred,  I  was  in  New 
York  City.  In  the  burning  of  San  Francisco  I  lost  a  large 
manuscript,  mainly  unduplicated,  containing  the  poetical  writ- 
ings of  my  whole  life.  The  present  volume  is  the  result  of 
years  of  effort  to  partially  restore  the  lost  one.  My  principal 
losses  were  these:  "Tamerlane  Victorious,"  1200  lines;  most  of 
"Sun  Worship  Shores,"  1000  lines;  "Trial  Of  Robert  Emmet," 
450  or  500  lines;  "Annals  Of  The  Spanish  Main,"  1000  lines; 
"Siesta,"  r.uii  lines;  "The  Griefs  Of  Bohemia,"  in  dramatic 
form,  1000  lines;  and  several  hundred  shorter  poems  of  travel, 
history  and  adventure. 

1  visited  Mexico  and  Central  America  in  1874-1875,  and 
"Sun  Worship  Shores"  was  a  descriptive  and  historical  poem 
concerning  the  tropic  lands.  Many  detached  portions  of  it 
are  in  this  volume,  having  been  recalled  by  memory,  or  found 


326  SOX  OS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

in  old  trunks,  scrap  books,  and  newspaper  files.  Also,  de- 
tached portions  of  "The  Griefs  Of  Bohemia"  and  "Annals  Of 
The  Spanish  Main."  I  have  made  no  attempt  to  recall 
"Tamerlane."  My  memory,  once  powerful,  has  been  failing 
for  a  number  of  years — the  result  of  old  age. 

"Werner"  is  the  most  inferior,  production  ascribed  to 
Byron.  It  was  severely  criticised  when  published — pronounced 
unworthy  of  his  fame.  It  was  claimed  "he  had  appropriated 
a  German  or  Hungarian  novel,  using  entire  pages  of  the 
author's  language,  merely  changing  it  here  and  there  to 
have  it  pass  for  blank  verse."  His  friends  and  enemies  laughed 
at  "Werner."  BlackVood  said  "It  is  indeed  most  unmusical, 
most  melancholy."  Its  publication  was  a  mystery.  One  ex- 
planation was  that  Byron  was  in  desperate  need  of  money. 
At  war  to  free  Greece  from  Turkish  rule,  all  was  staked  on 
quick  receipt  of  cash.  His  own  resources  had  been  lavished. 
Infusing  his  proud  spirit  into  ignorant  hordes,  he  sought  to 
find  sinews  of  war.  Seizing  on  a  novel  that  lay  at  hand, 
carelbrfs  of  everything  else,  he  threw  it  into  a  drama  styled 
"Werner,"  and  sent  it  to  his  London  publisher.  Such  is  the 
story.  Is  it  improbable  that  the  publisher  had  some  starving 
hack  do  the  job? — knowing  that  Byron  was  far  away,  en- 
grossed with  the  turmoils  of  desperate  war.  Placing  Byron's 
name  to  the  work,  in  convenient  American  fashion,  the  pub- 
lisher may  have  sent  it  out  himself,  simply  to  make  money. 
The  wife  of  the  poet  Shelley  declared  that  Byron  gave  her 
the  drama  to  copy  for  him,  and  that  it  went  to  London  in 
her  handwriting.  In  1899,  F.  Leveson  Gower,  an  English 
"gentleman  of  good  repute,"  put  forth  a  claim  that  his  grand- 
mother, the  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  was  authoress  of  "Wer- 
ner." He  asserted  that  the  Duchess  wrote  the  play,  and 
afterwards  gave  it  to  her  niece,  Lady  Caroline  Ponsonby,  who 
was  known  to  be  much  attached  to  Byron.  She  gave  the 
drama  to  Byron,  and  "he  committed  so  extraordinary  an  act 
as  to  deliberately  publish  the  work  of  another  author  over 
his  own  signature."  The  Duchess,  he  claimed,  wrote  the 
drama  from  Miss  Lee's  Hungarian  tale  of  "Kreutzner."  I  leave 
the  muddle  to  others.  It  was  very  unlike  Byron  to  claim 
authorship  to  anything  he  never  wrote.  He  may  have 
scribbled  off  "WTerner"  in  great  haste,  merely  to  get  money 
for  the  Greeks. 

A  crazy  effort  has  been  made  to  cast  doubt  on  the  author- 
ship of  Shakespeare's  dramas,  but  with  no  success.  It  is 
trite  to  say  that  he  seems  to  have  cared  nothing  for  fame. 
An  actor,  a  playwright  and  theatrical  manager,  he  undoubtedly 
recast  many  old  plays  and  books,  intent  only  on  pleasing  and 
interesting  the  public,  but  his  prodigious  genius  made  of 
this  careless  work  magnificent  additions  to  the  literature  of 
the  world. 

I  will  close  with  the  plaintive  lines  of  Adah  Isaacs  Menken: 


PROSE    AO  HEN  DA  327 

'Alas  for  me — for  theme  so  poor. 
I  stand  a  wreck  on  Error's  shore; 
.My  past  is  gone — forever  more! 

Where  is  the  promise  of  my  years, 

Once  written  on  my  brow, 
Ere  errors,  agonies  and  fears, 
And  all  we  feel  that  speaks  in  tears, 
En-   I   had  sunk  beneath  my  peers — 

Where    is   that   promise   now? 

I   look  along  the  columned  years, 

And  see  Life's  riven  fane 
Just   where  it  fell,  amid  the  sneers 
Of  scornful  foes  whose  hateful  jeers 
Still  hiss  and  ring  within  my  ears, 

To  break  the  sleep  of  pain. 

I  can  but  own  my  life  is  vain, 

A  desert  void  of  peace. 
I  missed  the  goal  I  meant  to  gain, 
1  missed  the  measure  of  the  strain 
That  lulls  Fame's  fever  in  the  brain 

And  gives  the  soul  release." 


SUBMERGING  OF  ATLANTIS 

Goethe  declared  that  the  Lisbon  earthquake  did  more  to 
shake  men's  belief  in  a  Heavenly  Father  than  all  the  skeptic- 
ism of  the  previous  century.  In  the  cataclysm  of  Atlantis 
probably  a  hundred  million  people  perished — highly  civilized, 
cultivated,  enlightened.  Fanatics  tell  us  that  "God  destroyed 
them  for  their  wickedness,"  but  this  an  old  chestnut.  Plane- 
tary eccentricities;  the  abnormal  action  and  influence  of  other 
heavenly  bodies — or,  the  cooling  of  the  interior  of  the  earth, 
disarranged  a  portion  of  its  crust.  A  catastrophe  of  the 
kind  may  occur  at  any  time.  The  shock  of  the  Lisbon  earth- 
quake was  felt  over  three  quarters  of  our  globe.  Nature 
cares  nothing  for  ephemeral  human  creatures.  Nature  is 
merciless.  There  is  reason  to  believe  that  the  world  once 
tipped  over,  the  Polar  regions  coming  on  the  equatorial  belt, 
and  the  tropical  regions  changing  to  arctic  and  semi-arctic 
zones.  (Pickering.)  This  displaced  the  oceans — "broke  up 
the  fountains  of  the  great  deep,"  and  drowned  most  of  the 
human  race.  From  such  a  frightful  occurrence  may  have 
come  the  world-wide  legend  of  the  Deluge.  Even  now  the 
world  is  top  heavy,  and  in  due  time  another  tip-over  may 
occur.  Nietzsche  explains  the  Glacial  eras  thus:  "They 
were  caused  by  the  tilting  of  the  earth,  whereby  vast  accumu- 


328  SON  OS   OF   A    MAN   WHO   FAILED 

lations  of  ice  at  the  North  Pole  were  loosened.  These  precipi- 
tated icebergs,  glaciers,  and  rivers  of  polar  water  over  north- 
ern Europe,  Asia  and  Amerca,  grinding  up  the  mastodon, 
mammoth,  auroc  and  other  enormous  animals,  and  also  great 
multitudes  of  semi-human  creatures.  The  earliest  trace  of 
civilization  is  in  the  tropics."  Many  astronomers  believe  a 
wandering  planetoid  once  struck  the  earth,  and  tore  off  three- 
quarters  of  its  crust,  making  the  moon,  and  leaving  a  hugs 
cavity  for  the  present  Pacific  Ocean.  Only  a  quarter  of  the 
surface  of  the  earth  is  dry  land.  Should  the  bed  of  the 
ocean  raise  to  a  common  circumference,  the  planet  would  be 
covered  with  water  and  the  human  race  be  exterminated. 
The  crust  of  the  earth  is  not  rigidly  fixed,  but  changes  may 
occur  at  any  time.  Continents  that  once  connected  Europe. 
Asia,  and  Africa,  and  bore  great  civilizations,  sunk  in  the 
sea.  In  1906  Brandenburg  wrote:  "Through  Yucatan,  Cen- 
tral America,  Venezuela,  Peru,  Bolivia,  Brazil,  Ecquador  and 
Chile  are  scores  of  ancient  cities  unexplored  *  *  *  Uxmal, 
Mitla,  Quirigua,  Copaii,  Chichen-Itza,  Palenque,  and  kindred 
great  cities  were  one  day  dipped  below  the  level  of  the  sea, 
and  whole  nations  and  races  were  drowned.  The  land  then 
raised  to  its  present  low  level."  Volcanic  disturbances  and 
earthquakes  are  undoubtedly  caused,  at  times,  by  the  peculiar 
positions  and  conjunctions  of  other  planets.  Our  globe  may 
be  affected,  at  any  time,  with  great  violence,  regardless  of 
civilizations  and  human  races.  In  May,  1902,  Mt.  Pelee  slew 
all  the  people  in  the  city  of  St.  Pierre,  save  one  lone  and 
horrified  survivor — twenty-eight  thousand  persons  perished.  On 
December  28,  1908,  a  Sicilian  earthquake  destroyed  200,000 
people  in  Messina  and  the  near  by  city  of  Reggio.  The 
wreck  and  burning  of  San  Francisco,  and  calamities  in 
Japan,  Mexico  and  elsewhere,  might  be  cited,  as  well  as  the 
olden  tragedy  of  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii.  Instances  are 
innumerable.  Man  takes  "pot-luck"  with  the  flimsy  ship  he 
is  sailing  on,  for  in  the  tremendous  convulsions  of  Nature  he 
is  of  no  more  consequence  than  a  fly,  a  bed-bug  or  mosquito. 
Let  this  reflection  tame  his  proud  heart.  No  benevolent  Power 
has  him  in  tender  charge.  He  must  rustle  for  himself,  and 
in  the  final  wind-up  will  be  wiped  out  completely.  He  will 
pass  away  utterly,  nor  ever  solve  the  wonderful  puzzle. 

"Earth  is  one  of  a  mighty  brotherhood  of  stars  whose 
true  nature,  meaning  and  purpose  are  beyond  the  mind  of 
Man  to  fathom." 

The  heavens  are  aflame  with  glittering  suns  by  millions. 
What  is  the  purpose  of  Nature's  transformations?  There 
seems  to  be  none.  Devotees,  rhapsodists,  people  who  have 
trances,  know  the  meaning  of  all  things,  but  sad  to  say,  tho 
most  wise  of  star-gazers  have  yet  to  find  any  meaning  or  pur- 
pose in  the  panorama  of  the  heavens.  This  is  the  gloomiest 
truth  Nature  discloses — only  a  tedious  rigmarole  of  changing 
forms  of  "indestructible  matter  that  always  existed.  In 
terror  and  despair  Man  seeks  refuge  in  vain  imaginings,  and 


PRO  SK    ADDENDA  329 

we  are  back,  in  philosophy,  where  men  groped  2500  years  ago. 
Whatever  one's  lot  happens  to  be,  accept  it  with  indifference, 
if  there  is  no  way  to  improve  it.  You  will  be  here  a  very 
shcrt  time.  Indulge  in  no  worries. 

Man   is  a   mortal,  hatched   out   by  the   Sun,   and   lives   but 
once.     So  I  guess  at  the  Great  Riddle. 


WAK   A    LAW  OF  XATTRK 

After  eons  of  evolution  a  species  of  large-brained  gorilla 
developed  into  a  scarcely  human  creature  Science  terms  the 
Ape-Man.  After  still  other  ages  and  vicissitudes,  this  creature 
became  the  Cave-Man,  in  lowest  form  of  savagery.  From 
that  time  to  this,  he  has  been  a  fighter,  warring  at  first  with 
powerful  and  ferocious  beasts — for  safety  and  for  sustenance. 
I'nless  he  fought  he  would  perish,  and  with  him  his  offspring. 
Like  Ximrod,  he  became  a  "mighty  hunter."  He  "subdued 
the  earth."  Then  rival  clans  of  men  warred  for  choice 
hunting  grounds,  to  resist  encroachments,  to  avenge  wrongs 
and  atrocities.  From  primal  time  it  has  been  Nature's  plan 
that  Man  must  battle,  war,  achieve.  From  the  Ape-Man  and 
the  Cave-Man,  Evolution  has  brought  forth  the  highest  type 
of  Aryan  manhood  such  as  culminates  in  a  Bayard,  Columbus, 
Washington,  Webster — an  Ericsson,  Edison,  Darwin,  or  Mar- 
coni. Through  hundreds  of  thousands  of  years  Man  survived 
startling  changes  of  climate,  glacial  eras,  land  upheavals, 
earthquake  shocks  and  volcanic  eruptions;  the  sinking  of 
whole  continents  into  the  sea — every  form  of  terrific  cataclysm, 
and  rising  from  brute  savagery,  he  built  Thebes,  Babylon. 
Baalbec,  Nineveh,  Rome,  Tyre,  Venice,  the  temples  of  Atlantis, 
the  pre-historic  cities  of  Central  America,  and  the  great  cities 
of  today.  He  is  not  a  fallen  immortal.  He  never  had  a  fall. 
He  has  arisen.  But  Nature  made  him  a  fighter.  His  environs, 
conditions,  over-population,  hereditary  instincts,  his  neces- 
sities, will  long  continue  to  keep  him  fighting.  Earth  may 
never  see  the  day  when  wars  will  be  no  more. 

In  1798,  Malthus,  a  rural  clergyman,  published  in  England 
an  "Essay  On  Population,"  in  which  he  maintained  that  "the 
inhabitants  of  a  country  where  population  doubles  every 
twenty  five  years,  multiply  in  geometric  progression  (1-2-4-8), 
whereas  food  supplies  increase  in  arithmetical  proportion 
(1-2-3-4).  The  final  result  is  War,  Pestilence  and  Famine." 
War,  hn  claimed,  was  Nature's  check  to  over-population. 

During  my  own  life  there  have  been  repeated  famines  in 
China,  and  great  ones — so  great  that  the  government  of  that 
country  viewed  relief  measures  as  utterly  useless.  Death 
for  million^  was  accepted  as  something  inevitable.  Last  au- 
tumn a  long  telegraphic  dispatch  from  Peking  gave  harrowing 
details  of  the  terrible  famine  existing  in  five  or  six  provinces 


330  SONGS   OF   A    MAN   WHO   FAILED 

of  that  ancient  country,  placing  in  distress  or  deadly  clanger 
from  thirty  to  fifty  million  people.  Multitudes  had  been 
perishing  from  pestilence  and  starvation.  Despair,  suicide, 
crime  and  insanity  prevailed.  In  particular  regions  thousands 
of  unfortunates  tried  to  live  on  a  diet  of  weeds,  thistles,  chaff 
and  leaves.  The  sale  of  little  girls  by  their  parents,  for  any 
sum  that  was  offered,  was  mentioned  without  comment. 
With  dreadful  significance  the  telegram  added:  "This  is 
only  a  forecast  of  what  will  come  before  winter  is  over,"  and 
cannibalism  was  hinted  at.  When  we  consider  Overpopulation 
as  an  absolute  law  of  Nature;  an  unfailing,  pre-arranged,  un- 
changeable plan,  the  doctrine  of  a  kind,  loving,  benevolent 
and  all-powerful  Heavenly  Father  must  be  thrown  to  the 
winds.  We  can  do  nothing  else  with  it.  On  the  same  day 
the  famine  horrors  filled  the  daily  papers,  came  news  of  th^ 
arrival  at  Constantinople  of  a  fleet  of  ninety-one  vessels  that 
were  packed  and  crowded  with  Russian  refugees  dying  of 
hunger.  Most  of  the  continent  of  Asia  is  under  the  shadow 
of  famine,  at  this  writing,  to  say  nothing  of  suffering  in 
Europe. 

Professor  W.  H.  Hobbs,  of  the  University  of  Michigan,  says: 
"Never  in  the  history  of  the  world  have  men  been  able  to 
achieve  anything  more  than  an  armed  truce.  War  is  a  re- 
curring phenomenon.  War  is  inevitable." 

War  results  from  natural  conditions,  and  from  the  qualities 
and  characteristics  of  mankind.  We  did  not  make  these  con- 
ditions, nor  instill  these  qualities,  nor  can  we  change  them. 
Therefore  be  always  ready  for  war.  The  outlook  is  not  for 
peace.  Future  wars  will  come  from  over-population,  com 
mercial  rivalry,  greed  and  ambition,  industrial  unrest,  social 
unrest;  conflicting  theories  of  various  kinds — from  racial, 
religious  and  political  animosities,  and,  finally,  from  the  cool- 
ing of  the  earth.  At  a  period  not  remote  wood,  coal,  oil  and 
gas  will  be  gone.  Unless  Man  masters  the  problem  of  Solar 
Heat,  and  utilizes  the  Sun's  tremendous  powers,  warring  na- 
tions will  crowd  toward  the  tropics.  Airy  propaganda,  cant, 
hyprccrisy,  sham,  pretense,  and  sentimentality,  will  not  avert 
war,  but  will,  in  the  end,  invite  war,  without  any  preparation 
for  it.  War  is  inevitable,  and  if  you  do  not  fight,  and  fight 
victoriously,  you  will  be  cbnquered,  plundered  and  enslaved. 
War  is  a  Law  of  Nature,  which  Man  cannot  change — no  more 
than  wild  creatures  of  the  wood  can  dwell  in  harmless  peace 
together.  The  whole  scheme  of  Nature  involves  war,  one 
species  preying  on  the  other,  and  all  especially  equipped  for 
mutual  destruction  (claws,  beaks,  talons,  tusks  and  poison), 
with  Man  preying  on  every  other  species,  and  preying  on  his 
fellows  also.  Any  League  of  Peace  will  be  a  dismal  failure. 
As  well  talk  of  a  League  for  Promoting  Peace  and  Harmony 
Among  Wild  Animals.  The  lion  and  the  lamb  will  lie  down 
together — after  the  lion  has  been  to  supper,  with  the  lamb 
as  the  main  "piece  de  resistance."  Read  the  Book  of  Nature. 
There  is  nothing  in  it  but  war.  Kind-hearted  old  ladies  and 


PROSK    ADDENDA  331 

sentimental  collegians  cannot  change  the  laws  of  Nature. 
Statesmanship,  true  philosophy.  Common  Sense,  and  great 
v^ments  of  Science,  will  do  much  to  postpone  war,  and 
mitieat^  its  horrors,  but  War  will  come  nevertheless.  Be 
ready  for  it. 

People  who  oppose  readiness  for  war,  and  brand  soldiers 
as  murderers,  have  grown  rich  on  lands  won  by  war  and 
sprinkled  with  the  blood  of  soldiers.  They  are  hypocrites, 
cowards,  slackers,  skulkers.  Some  of  them  are  paid  by 
foreign  governments.  Julius  Kahn,  the  California  congress 
man,  points  out  that  since  the  foundation  of  our  government 
we  have  had  some  kind  of  a  war  every  four  or  five  years,  on 
an  average.  The  doors  of  our  Temple  of  Janus  are  seldom 
closed.  In  less  than  150  years  we  have  had  from  25  to  30  wars, 
small  and  great,  and  yet  there  are  people  in  the  country  who 
preach  that  we  don't  need  any  soldiers.  Their  women  sing, 
"I  didn't  raise  my  boy  to  be  a  soldier."  Our  soldiers  and 
marines  have  fought  in  Europe,  Asia,  Africa,  all  over  North 
America,  and  on  the  isles  of  the  sea.  Wars  will  cease  when 
all  the  men  in  the  world  are  polite  gentlemen,  and  when  all 
the  women  in  the  world  are  saints  and  angels.  More  men 
are  murdered  in  the  United  States  every  year  than  the  Conti- 
nentals lost  at  Bunker  Hill.  More  men  are  murdered  in  the 
United  States  every  year  by  women,  than  fell  at  Concord. 
Daylight  brigandage  is  worse  in  the  United  States,  and  more 
profitable,  than  it  is  in  Mexico.  Soldiers  have  had  to  be 
placed  on  guard  at  the  railroad  depots  of  all  our  large  cities, 
and  around  the  postoffices  of  those  cities,  to  prevent  armed 
banditti  from  seizing  and  running  away  with  the  mails,  in 
broad  daylight.  At  Omaha,  60  miles  from  where  I  write, 
civilian  guards  armed  with  revolvers  and  repeating  shot-guns, 
are  now  pacing  the  platforms  to  protect  the  mails.  There  is 
no  sign  of  the  Millenium — not  yet.  Pedagogues  and  college 
professors — demagogues,  fanatics  and  visionaries— feminine 
and  masculine  women,  do  not  keep  us  out  of  wars,  but  greatly 
help  to  get  us  into  them.  War  is  a  law  of  Nature.  It  is  sure 
to  come,  whether  we  keep  ready  for  it  or  not,  and  whether 
we  want  it  or  not.  While  doing  everything  we  can  to  honor- 
ably avoid  war,  let  us  imitate  the  goddess  of  Wisdom,  and  be 
always  armed  and  ready. 

"The  gods  and  deities  gathered  on  Olympus,  crowned  with 
flmv»»rs:  glad  with  music  and  songs,  nectar  and  dancing.  One 
deity  stood  apart  in  silence,  with  helmet  and  breast-plate  on; 
with  shield  in  place  and  javelin  ready;  with  sword  at  her 
side.  This  was  the  goddess  Wisdom." 

University  professors,  pedagogues,  preachers  and  women 
are  noncombatants  in  time  of  war,  and  claim  exemption  from 
military  dangers.  Therefore  they  should  not  demand  that  men 
who  must  fight  when  the  war  comes  shall  be  untrained,  un- 
armed, and  totally  unready.  This  is  a  wrong  to  him  who 
must  "bear  the  battle."  Cromwell  repeatedly  complained  of 
interference  with  his  military  plans  by  "religious  politicians." 


332  SO  NGS   OF   A    MAN   WHO    FAILED 

We  call  such  busybodies  "political  preachers."  A  French 
writer  in  "The  Nineteenth  Century"  says  "America!  a  coun- 
try whose  whole  history  from  the  Louisiana  Purchase  of  1803 
to  the  most  recent  adventures  in  Central  America  and  the 
West  Indies,  is  one  of  expansion  at  the  expense  of  neighboring 
people." 

John  Burroughs  thought  Darwinism  was  indirectly  one  of 
the  causes  of  the  World  War.  "The  doctrine  of  natural  selec- 
ticn,  the  struggle  for  existence,  and  survival  of  the  fittest, 
fairly  intoxicated  the  German  people."  It  must  be  suggested, 
however,  that  the  Hohenzollerns  had  shown  a  fondness  for 
war  long  before  Darwin's  time.  Over-population,  "the  geo- 
graphical situation  of  Germany,"  the  "necessity  of  expansion," 
the  "certainty  that  war  will  come  anyhow,  and  strike  as  soon 
as  ready" — these  were  logical  arguments.  War  is  a  law  of 
Nature,  and  men  will  always  have  something  to  fight  about. 
War  is  the  doom  of  every  living  species.  Cruelty  is  Nature's 
corner  stone.  It  is  a  sad,  a  solemn,  a  most  unpleasant  thought, 
that  Nature's  plan  is  War,  but  we  cannot  change  if.  Nature 
is  merciless.  Man's  career  is  one  of  toil,  distress,  and  often 
misery.  His  best  friends  are  Science,  Invention  and  himself. 

Every  thoughtful  person  laments  the  horrors  of  War,  but 
to  be  unprepared  for  victorious  defence  is  to  invite  insult, 
aggression,  War  and  all  manner  of  calamities. 

In  every  country  are  people  ready  to  bring  on  war.  Dream- 
ers, meddlers,  agitators,  fanatics,  that  pursue  their  hobbies  in 
defiance  of  public  danger,  in  defiance  of  everything; — but  sel- 
dom do  any  fighting  themselves.  As  an  instance,  the  Abolition- 
ists who  helped  bring  on  the  Civil  War.  During  three  years 
cf  military  service,  I  never  saw  an  avowed  Aboltionist  in  the 
Army.  Such  men  stayed  at  home  to  make  money.  Another 
class  in  favor  of  war,  a  powerful  one,  is  made  up  of  manu- 
facturers on  a  large  scale  of  arms,  munitions,  equipments, 
plate  armor,  war  vessels,  etc.  This  class  represents  an  im- 
mense aggregate  of  capital,  and  wields  wide  influence.  A 
third  faction  consists  of  very  rich  men  who  view  matters  with 
some  indifference,  but  would  just  as  soon  see  a  big  war 
as  not,  in  order  that  they  may  buy  great  quantities  of  govern- 
ment bonds — and  hold  the  same  as  a  permanent  investment. 
These  three  factions  do  much  to  promote  war,  acting  when 
affairs  are  critical. 

Most  men  are  born  to  toil,  anxiety,  suffering,  sorrow — and 
the  grave  awaits.  Who  can  see  any  good  in  such  a  plan? 
Shall  we  spin  a  fairy  story  to  keep  up  our  courage?  No! 
let  us  bear  trials  and  hardships  with  indifference;  then  die, 
and  quit  the  stage  of  action.  Or,  be  as  knight's  going  forth 
for  adventures,  expecting  blows,  wounds,  defeats  and  vic- 
tories; tournays,  truces  and  pleasures,  and  then  eternal 
rest.  Question  not — there  comes  no  answer. 

No  man  should  hold  high  rank  in  the  American  Army  who 
travels  about  the  country  making  speeches,  arguing  that 
soldiers,  guns,  battle-ships,  munitions  and  equipments  are 


PROSE    AD  DEN  I    A  333 

wholly  unnecessary  relics  of  barbarism.  He  is  a  man  out  of" 
place,  in  the  army,  and  should  be  invited  to  resign.  His 
hobbies  might  some  day  cost  the  lives  of  half  a  million 
soldiers,  and  bring  grievous  disgrace  on  the  Nation.  \\V 
should  have  no  Pacifists  in  our  regular  army,  especially  in 
high  rank.  They  would  be  more  beneficial  to  the  enemy  than 
to  us. 

The  martial  spirit  that  founded  this  Republic,  and  after- 
wards preserved  it,  is  being  supplanted  by  the  pipe-dreams 
of  sneaking  pedagogues  (many  of  them  under  the  pay  of  hos- 
tile foreign  governments),  and  by  the  hysterical  ravings  of 
senseless,  silly  women  unfit  to  take  part  in  public  affairs.  If 
treasonable,  effeminate  and  degenerate  theories  and  doctrines 
are  taught  in  our  schools  and  universities,  and  are  accepted 
by  our  people,  catastrophe  impends. 

In  time  of  peace  prepare  for  war. — Washington. 

I  am  proud  that  my  country  is  unprepared  for  war. — 
American  Secretary  of  War,  1917. 

,War  is  the  natural  condition  of  mankind. — Macliiarcin. 

War  is  the   normal  state  of  Man. — Geo.  W.  Crilc. 

War  is  unavoidable.  It  is  a  law  of  Nature.  Nature  is 
merciless. — Von  Moltke. 

Men  will  fight  whenever  they  want  to  fight,  and  no  artificial 
scheme  or  process  will  restrain  them. — Col.  Henri/  Wattcnton. 

All  quality,  pride,  pomp  and  circumstance  of  glorious  War. — 
Othello. 

The  "glorious"  part  of  war  is  in  the  patriotism,  heroism, 
and  self-sacrifice  df  the  combatants. — Geo.  E.  Harreir. 

War   is   Hell. — Gen.   W.   T.   xjicrman. 

There  are  things  worse*  than  War. — Tlicodore  L'ooxcrdt. 

There,  was  war   in  Heaven. — Milton. 

What  Man  wants  is  not  peace,  but  a  battle.  He  is  a  fighting 
animal.  He  loves  adventure,  self-sacrifice,  excitement,  hero- 
ism, relaxation.— Prof.  G.  T.  W.  Patrick. 

National  "need  of  expansion"  means  Overpopulation,  and 
overpopulation  means  War.  Overpopulation  is  certain  to 
come,  and  on  its  trail  follow  War,  Pestilence  and  Famine. 
This  is  Nature's  law,  and  Man  cannot  greatly  change  it.  Na- 
ture knows  nothing  of  pity  or  mercy,  but  in  cruelty  is 
prodigal. —  \Vainritjht. 

War  develops  noble  qualities — courage,  honor,  high  sense 
of  duty,  patriotism,  fortitude,  generosity,  heroism,  self- 
sacrifice.  Perpetual  peace  would  stagnate  the  world,  and 
degenerate  mankind. — (i<-n.  Von  Lmli-ndorff. 

The  path  of  human  progress  is  strewn  with  the  bones  of 
fools,  heroes  and  martyrs. — llnlyn-. 

We  must  fight.  I  repeat  it,  Sir.  We  must  fight. — Patrick 
Henry. 

Let  us  fight  as  though  we  stood  on  the  place  of  our  birth 
and  the  place  of  our  burial. — Robert  of  xidli/. 

We  are  too  proud  to  fight. — Woodrow  Wilson. 


334  SONGS   OF  A   MAN   WHO   FAILED 

You  can't  make  an  omelet  without  breaking  a  few  eggs. — 
Marshal  Ney  at  Borodino. 

1  cannot  understand  why  we  have  war  no  more  than  I 
understand  why  we  have  cancer  and  tuberculosis.  When  there 
is  nothing  in  common  between  two  nations,  and  no  com- 
munity of  interest,  there  will  exist  reasons  for  war,  just  as 
the  case  has  been  heretofore.  There  are  times  when  it  is  our 
duty  to  make  war,  and  if  we  refuse,  we  will  cease  to  exist 
as  a  nation. — Gen.  Leonard  Wood.  U.  8.  Army. 

The  longing  for  permanent  peace  is  impossible  of  realization, 
and  has  effeminate  tendencies. — Gen.  Von  Wrochem. 

War  is  inevitable — as  much  so  as  the  forces  of  Nature.  It 
does  not  depend  on  the  will  or  wishes  of  human  beings.  It 
is  an  irresistible  demoniacal  power  that  makes  all  written 
agreements,  all  humanitarian  efforts,  all  peace  conferences, 
miserable  failures. — Gen.  Keim. 

Napoleon  was  the  greatest  military  genius  that  ever  ex- 
isted— unquestionably. — Duke  of  Wellington. 

War  is  yet   in  its  infancy. — Napoleon. 

Future  wars  will  be  more  deadly  than  those  of  the  past. 
The  induction  of  Woman  into  public  life  may  generate 
ferocious  religious  wars.  Gen.  Wood  estimates  that  in  the 
World  War  the  Americans  lost  from  one-third  to  one-half 
more  men  than  was  necessary,  because  of  insufficiency  of  train- 
ing — a  heavy  price  to  pay  in  blood  and  lives  for  the  "humani 
tarian"  hobbies  of  preachers  and  pedagogues— the  kind  of 
fanatics  who  get  up  most  wars,  but  who  never  place  them- 
selves in  danger. 


BRUTALITIES  OF  WAR 

In  the  great  battle  before  Atlanta  on  July  22nd,  1864,  the 
regiment  to  which  I  belonged  was  surrounded  and  captured, 
after  having  captured  the  greater  part  of  two  regiments  and 
three  companies  of  the  enemy.  Our  brilliant  general,  Mc- 
Pherson,  was  killed.  We  were  sent  to  Andersonville,  the  hor- 
rors of  which  are  well  known.  As  each  army  had  captured 
about  two  thousand  men,  Hood  and  Sherman  agreed  to  a 
special  exchange.  In  making  out  rolls  at  Andersonville,  a 
sergeant  of  my  company  omitted  my  name  from  the  list, 
and  substituted  the  name  of  a  man  of  another  regiment,  who, 
by  the  terms,  was  not  entitled  to  exchange.  That  man  went 
out  in  my  place.  A  similar  act  of  treachery  was  perpetrated 
on  two  other  members  of  my  regiment — William  Pitts,  a 
youth  of  nineteen,  and  Neil  Torkelson,  a  man  about  40  years 
of  age.  Both  afterwards  perished  in  Andersonville. 

The  continued  successes  of  Sherman's  army  caused  a  con- 
stant removal  of  prisoners  in  the  South.  I  was,  in  succession, 
a  captive  at  Millen,  Georgia;  at  Savannah;  at  Blackshear,  on 
the  Florida  line;  at  the  stockade  of  Florence,  South  Carolina; 
at  Charleston,  and  at  Wilmington  and  Goldsboro,  North 


PROSi:    ADDENDA  335 

Carolina.  While  4.000  of  us — survivors  of  many  prisons — lay 
in  bivouac  under  guard  at  Wilmington,  Gen.  Terry  <-a;>ture(l 
ihe  i-iiy.  Rebel  guards  drove  us  to  trains  and  hurried  us  off 
to  Coldslioro.  Th<  re  ihe  enemy  decided  to  parole  us.  Be- 
lieving that  Union  troops  must  be  near,  we  refused  to  sign 
the  papers,  but  they  drove  us  up  to  the  tables  at  the  point 
of  the  bayonet  and  we  signed.  The  next  afternoon,  on  the 
ever  memorable  day  of  February  26th,  1865 — six  weeks  before 
Lee  surrendered  at  Appomattox — we  entered  the  Union  lines 
at  Cape  Fear  river,  receiving  a  glorious  ovation  from  General 
Ttiiv  and  the  Union  army.  We  had  truly  come  "out  of 
the  jaws  of  Death,  and  out  of  the  gates  of  Hell." 

From  slow  starvation  nearly  14,000  men  perished  at  Ander- 
sonville.  The  only  escape  from  •death  was  to  swear  allegiance 
to  the  Confederacy,  and  take  a  musket  in  its  defence.  This 
a  man  could  do  at  any  time,  but  out  of  all  the  Union  prisoners 
in  the  South  only  a  few  thousand  availed  themselves  of  so 
base  an  expedient,  mainly  with  the  intention  of  deserting  to 
the  Union  lines.  An  overwhelming  majority  spurned  the 
offer,  and  they  died  by  thousands,  under  the  most  horrifying 
circumstances.  Gen.  Robert  E.  Lee  was  not  a  party  to  this 
inhuman  business.  \Vhen  told  of  the  condition  of  the  prison- 
ers he  answered:  "While  I  have  no  authority  in  the  matter, 
my  desire  is  that  the  prisoners  shall  have  equal  rations  with 
my  own  men."  His  wishes  received  no  attention. 

Civilization,  or  pretended  civilization,  not  always  does  away 
with  War's  brutalities.  The  Confederate  government  had 
classic  examples  of  the  starvation  of  military  prisoners.  In 
ancient  Rome  it  was  not  uncommon  to  place  captured  kings 
and  heroes  in  dungeons,  and  leave  them  to  die  of  starvation. 
Jugurtha  was  lowered  into  a  dry  well  and  left  to  starve.  In 
the  war  between  Athens  and  Syracuse,  10,000  captives  from 
the  Athenian  army  marched  into  an  immense  stone  quarry 
from  which  escape  was  impossible,  and  there  perished  from 
thirst  and  starvation.  History  fails,  no  doubt,  to  mention 
a  multitude  of  similar  crimes  against  humanity.  During  the 
revolt  of  the  American  colonies,  England  anchored  prison 
ships  in  New  York  harbor,  and  four-fifths  of  the  military 
prisoners  immured  in  them,  perished  of  hunger  and  hard 
usage.  Butchery  on  the  battle  field  would  be  better.  No 
excuse,  apology  or  defense  can  be  offered  for  the  abuse  of 
military  prisoners.  People  who  hate  them,  should  go  to 
the  battle  field  and  expend  animosities  there. 

During  the  Napoleonic  wars  Gen.  Junot  surrendered  a 
considerable  body  of  French  troops  to  the  allies,  in  Portugal. 
The  unfortunate  French  received  such  ferocious  treatment  at 
the  hands  of  the  Portuguese  that  only  a  few  hundred  of  tti&m 
ever  got  back  to  France.  The  main  portion  perished  in  pris- 
ons, in  the  galleys,  in  stone  quarries,  and  in  other  places  of 
torture  and  starvation. 

During  the  World  War,  an  American  Andersonville  came 
into  evil  existence  at  Lemans,  France — a  concentration  camp 


336  SONGS   OF   A   MAN   WHO   FAILED 

that  a  million  American  soldiers  passed  through.  This  in- 
ferno was  mildly  termed  "a  military  police  station."  Great 
numbers  of  American  soldiers,  arrested  for  trivial  offenses, 
are  said  to  have  lost  their  lives  there,  or  came  out  with  ruined 
health,  by  reason  of  cruel  and  abominable  treatment.  The 
ocean  cables  could  send  no  information  to  America  till  the 
same  had  been  approved  by  a  censor.  A  correspondent  who 
wrote  anything  about  Lemans  could  be  sent  to  prison.  On 
this  side,  an  insolent  autocracy  intimidated  the  public  press. 
When  the  war  ended  and  the  soldiers  came  back,  a  demand 
was  made  for  the  punishment  of  some  one  for  the  atrocities 
at  Lemans.  Public  clamor  forced  attention  to  the  matter. 
On  December  10,  1919,  a  court-martial  convened  at  Governor's 
Island,  New  York,  and  Captain  Karl  W.  Detzer  Was  placed  on 
trial,  with  more  than  twenty-eight  specifications  filed  against 
him.  In  the  following  February,  to  the  unconcealed  pleasure 
of  the  official  grandees  at  Washijigton,  Detzer  was  acquited  and 
"completely  exonerated."  An  inspired  telegram  announced 
that  "the  verdict  was  reached  in  ten  minutes  after  proceedings 
ended." 

The  chief  alleged  criminal  was  not  arraigned  at  all,  for  the 
openly  expressed  reasons  that  he  "had  been  the  military 
guardian  of  the  President,"  and  that  "no  one  would  be  so 
bold  as  to  even  hint  at  his  connection  with  the  matter."  (This 
does  not  refer  to  General  Pershing.) 

After  all  the  pomp  and  flurry  at  Governor's  Island,  one 
conviction  resulted.  Lieutenant  Frank  B.  Smith  (otherwise 
known  as  "Hard  Boiled  Smith"),  received  a  sentence  at  the 
Leavenworth  penitentiary  for  "great  cruelty  to  the  soldiers." 
He  had  barely  got  well  ensconced  at  the  prison,  however,  be- 
fore he  was  liberated  by  Woodrow  Wilson. 

To  a  Congressional  committee,  Gen.  Peyton  C.  March, 
former  Chief  of  Staff,  declared:  "Cruelties  worse  than  were 
ever  known  in  the  Siberian  prison  camps  of  the  Czar  were 
perpetrated  on  our  soldiers  in  France.  Only  one  officer  has 
been  found  guilty.  All  the  others  were  honorably  discharged." 

When  a  war  is  over — especially  a  civil  war — it  is  not  wise 
to  perpetuate  its  passions  and  hatreds.  Neither  is  it  wise  to 
hastily  ignore  inhuman  barbarities  that  have  taken  place. 
Let  these  remain  on  record  that  the  persons  or  factions  at 
fault  may  justly  receive  the  bitter  condemnation  of  posterity. 
"Scratch  a  Russian  and  you  will  find  a  Tartar,"  said  Napoleon. 
Scratch  a  "civilized  man"  and  you  will  too  often  find  a 
savage.  Let  us  never  fail  to  excoriate  him. 

Concerning  the  treatment  of  the  Athenians  at  Syracuse, 
Thucydides  narrates  as  follows:  "The  sun  by  day  was  still 
scorching  and  suffocating.  There  was  no  roof  over  their  heads, 
while  the  autumn  nights  were  cold,  and  the  extremes  of 
temperature  engendered  violent  disorders.  Being  cramped 
for  room  they  had  to  do  everything  on  the  same  spot.  The 
corpses  of  those  who  died  from  their  wounds,  from  exposure 
to  the  weather,  and  the  like,  lay  heaped  upon  one  another. 


PROSE    ADDENDA  337 

The  smells  were  intolerable;  and  the  captives  were  at  the 
same  time  afflicted  by  hunger  and  thirst.  They  were  allowed 
<mly  half  a  pint  of  water  and  a  pint  of  food  a  day.  Every 
kind  of  misery  which  could  befall  man  in  such  a  place  befell 
them.  Of  the  many  that  came  there  few  returned  home." 

Thus  did  the  most  refined  and  civilized  people  of  ancient 
times  treat  captive  soldiers  of  their  own  race  and  country. 
The  Hole  at  Syracuse  was  a  prototype  of  Andersonville, 
though  on  a  smaller  scale.  Its  highest  number  of  captives 
was  10,000.  The  highest  number  at  Andersonville  was  about 
35,000,  of  whom  nearly  14,000  are  buried  there.  In  all  Con- 
federate stockades  and  prisons,  the  invariable  rule  was  starva- 
tion and  brutal  treatment.  Only  one  exception  came  to  my 
notice.  The  commandant  of  the  Millen  stockade  seemed  a 
kind-hearted  man,  but  he  sadly  confessed  that  he  was  power- 
less to  relieve  our  miseries. 

Henry  Wirz,  the  foreign  mercenary  who  commanded  at 
Andersonville,  was  hanged  at  Washington  City,  at  the  close 
of  the  Civil  War. 


NUMBER  OF  SOLDIERS  IX  THE  CIVIL  WAR 

[On  September  14,  1916,  I  published  this  letter  in  the  Chi- 
cago "Evening  Xev.s."] 

To  the  Editor — 

A  paragraph  has  been  floating  about  in  the  newspapers  of 
Oklahoma,  of  late,  which  I  quote  as  follows: 

"The  Omaha  World-Herald,  in  a  recent  issue,  gave  some 
statistics  showing  that  the  vast  majority  of  those  who  served 
in  the  Union  army  were  boys.  Those  who  enlisted  when  18 
years  of  age,  or  under  that,  numbered  over  a  million.  Those 
who  were  21  years  old,  or  under  that,  numbered  more  than 
two  million.  Those  who  enlisted  when  they  were  22  years 
old  or  over,  numbered  but  618,511.  Those  25  years  old  and 
upward  numbered  but  46,626." 

Here  we  have  "more  than"  3,665,137  men  in  the  Union 
army— m'ariy  as  great  a  host  as  Xerxes  had  when  he  tried 
to  conquer  Greece.  How  flattering  to  Southern  pride!  No 
such  number  of  men  ever  served  in  the  Union  army.  These 
"statistics"  are  based  on  the  number  of  enlistments,  re- 
rnlistments,  and  additional  re-enlistments  throughout  the 
Civil  War.  For  instance,  I  enlisted  twice  and  count  as  two 
soldiers.  I  knew  great  numbers  of  men  who  enlisted  three 
times.  They  volunteered  under  Lincoln's  first  call,  to  serve 
three  months:  they  then  enlisted  for  three  years,  and  after- 
wards re-enlisted  during  the  "veteran  call"  to  serve  for  "three 
years  or  during  the  war."  Under  the  "veteran  call"  whol<> 
regiments,  brigades,  divisions  and  corps  de  armee  re-enlisted — 
sounding  the  death  knell  of  the  Confederate  States  of  Amer- 
ica. All  these  re-enlistments  count,  in  the  bogus  "statistics" 
22 


338  SONGS   OF   A   MAN   WHO   FAILED 

given,  as  new  and  distinct  persons.  It  was  not  uncommon 
to  find  men  who,  by  reason  of  wounds  or  sickness  or  other 
mishaps,  had  enlisted  four  times,  and  each  one  of  them  counts 
as  four  soldiers.  Hordes  of  professional  "bounty-jumpers" 
enlisted  twenty  or  thirty  times,  and  each  of  them  counts  in 
these  pretended  "statistics"  as  twenty  or  thirty  soldiers.  They 
continued  to  re-enlist  till  they  were  shot  and  buried.  Thirty 
of  them  were  shot  at  one  time,  at  Washington  City,  by  order 
of  Lincoln. 

Every  year  the  "historical"  fake  I  speak  of  starts  on  its 
travels,  usually  about  the  time  of  some  military  encampment. 
In  1912,  or  thereabouts,  the  Chicago  "News"  published  an 
editorial  on  the  subject,  which  read  much  as  this  letter  does. 
A  few  other  newspapers  may  have  done  the  same,  or  may 
have  copied  the  "News"  editorial — but  without  effect.  The  old 
lie  still  travels.  I  have  no  hope  of  killing  it  off,  but  write 
from  a  sense  of  duty,  trusting  that  some  one  else  will  attend 
to  the  matter  next  year.  To  write  a  history  of  any  war, 
especially  of  a  civil  war,  that  shall  be  correct  in  every  par- 
ticular, is  doubtless  an  impossibility.  When  we  know  a  state- 
ment of  importance  is  outrageously  false,  however,  it  is  our 
duty  to  correct  it  in  time — if  we  can.  The  actual  number  of 
men  who  served  in  the  Union  Army  could  only  be  ascertained 
by  an  exhaustive  overhauling  of  the  records  of  the  War 
Department,  and  the  game  is  not  worth  the  candle.  At  the 
close  of  that  war  the  strength  of  the  Union  Army  was  sup- 
posed to  be  about  a  million  men.  According  to  the  bogus 
"statistics"  given,  this  would  show  a  loss  on  the  battlefield 
of  2,665,137  men — which  is  ridiculous.  It  may  be  pointed  out 
that  we  have — fifty  years  after  the  war — a  pension  roll  of 
nearly  a  million  persons.  This  is  true,  but  not  half  the  names 
on  that  roll  are  the  names  of  Civil  War  soldiers,  although  all 
of  them  are  popularly  supposed  to  be.  Whose  names  are  they? 
That  is  another  matter.  Not  half  of  them  are  names  of 
Civil  War  veterans. 

How  many  men  served  in  the  Confederate  Army?  The 
records  were  poorly  kept  and  mostly  lost,  and  the"  number 
will  never  be  known.  The  highest  estimate  I  have  ever  seen, 
placed  the  number  at  about  600,000,  but  the  proper  figure 
should  be  about  a  million.  The  South  had  a  white  population 
of  eight  millions,  and  the  Southern  Conscription  Act  was  re- 
lentless. Every  man  able  to  lift  a  gun  had  to  fight — boys, 
young  men,  middle-aged  men,  very  old  men.  In  the  words 
of  General  Grant,  "the  Southern  Conscription  robbed  the 
cradle  and  the  grave."  Every  man  able  to  shoot  had  to  serve. 
Military  struggles  in  other  lands  show  that  a  population  of 
seven  millions,  in  a  great  emergency,  can  turn  out  a  million 
fighters.  With  eight  million  people  to  draw  from  (and  four 
million  slaves  to  feed  them),  it  is  only  fair  to  presume  that, 
during  the  course  of  the  Civil  War,  a  million  Southerners 
served  in  the  army. 

Connected    with  the  fake   I   complain   of  there   is    usually 


PROSE    ADDENDA  339 

attached  the  assertion  that  "the  rebellion  was  put  down  by 
an  army  of  boys."  I  have  seen  statements  of  the  alleged 
enlistment  of  children  as  young  as  twelve  or  thirteen  years. 
All  such  stuff  is  rot.  The  Confederacy  was  a  great  military 
power,  and  was  never  subdued  by  an  army  of  children.  The 
regulations  required  a  recruit  to  be  18  years  of  age.  Often 
he  claimed  to  be  18  when  he  was  not  quite  so  old.  I  did  that 
way.  If  the  soldiers  were  mostly  very  young  men,  they  were 
far  too  husky  to  be  classed  as  children.  We  had  drummer 
boys  as  young  as  15,  but  seldom  a  soldier  of  that  age.  I 
never  happened  to  see  one  of  that  kind.  Youths  of  seventeen 
are  thoroughly  fitted  for  military  life,  and  if  not  killed,  will 
soon  become  older.  In  spite  of  latter  day  degeneracy,  I  hope 
to  see  military  drill  introduced  into  every  High  School  in  the 
land.  We  left  school  rooms  by  thousands,  to  enter  the  Union 
army,  and  to-day  we  see  our  country  great,  rich  and  powerful. 
A  race  that  will  not  fight  will  be  conquered,  plundered  and 
enslaved — and  deserves  such  a  fate.  "In  time  of  peace  prepare 
for  war."  Thus  wrote  immortal  Washington. 

CLINT  PAI;KIIT-RST 


PETTING  AM)  PENSIONING  DESERTERS 

In  1916,  when  the  country  had  no  sufficient  Army;  no 
adequate  Navy;  no  munitions,  equipments,  arms  or  military 
supplies,  and  when  a  great  foreign  war  impended,  we  had^ 
on  the  Pension  Roll  of  the  Nation  the  names  of  125,000  de- 
serters. 

The  number  of  new  deserters,  because  of  the  World  War, 
is  officially  placed  at  150,000 — as  yet  unpensioned. 

On  September  22,  1920,  the  Kansas  City  "Star,"  Lfncoln 
"Journal,"  Omaha  "Bee,"  and  other  leading  dailies,  gave  ac- 
count of  the  release  of  a  great  number  of  draft  deserters 
who  had  been  in  prison  at  Leavenworth  throughout  the  World 
War.  "Kach  of  them  was  paid  a  salary  for  all  the  time 
he  was  in  prison,  and  also  received  a  new  suit  of  clothes, 
and  was  paid  the  same  bonus  discharged  soldiers  got."  How 
noble,  how*  generous  of  .Mr.  Wilson!  They  should  now  be 
put  on  the  Pension  Roll  at  liberal  rates — and,  after  some  delay, 
they  will  be. 

At  the  time  of  their  kindly  release,  with  lavish  pay,  tens 
of  thousands  of  maimed  and  helpless  veterans  of  the  World 
War  were  tramping  the  country,  or  dying  in  jails  and  poor 
houses,  unable  to  obtain  the  slightest  attention  from  the 
Grand  Autocracy — a  national  shame! 

A  soldier  receives  "pay",  (when  the  government  attends 
to  him).  A  deserter,  on  release,  has  a  "salary"  for  all  the 
time  he  has  been  in  prison,  a  "new  suit  of  clothes,"  and  the 
"same  bonus  a  discharged  soldier  gets."  He  is  a  pet  and  a 


340  SONGS   OF   A    MAN   WHO   FAILED 

favorite   of   the   government.     A   "government"   of   this    sort 
merits  only  public  contempt. 

What  should  be   done  with   deserters? 

The  custom  in  all  armies  in  the  world,  from  time  im- 
memorial, has  been  to  give  them  a  speedy  trial  and  a  prompt 
execution.  In  the  armies  of  ancient  Rome,  a  soldier  who 
left  his  post  of  duty  for  even  a  short  time,  for  any  reason 
whatsoever,  was  beaten  to  death  with  clubs  by  his  compan- 
ions-in-arms.  In  the  Civil  War,  in  both  the  northern  and 
southern,  armies,  a  deserter  was  shot,  if  caught.  Lincoln  had 
thirty  of  them  shot  at  one  time,  at  Washington  City.  Had 
he  caught  and  shot  all  the  rest  of  them,  he  would  have 
saved  the  country  a  mint  of  money.  The  new  style  is  for 
congressmen  to  "rectify  the  records"  of  skulkers,  slackers  and 
deserters,  and  load  them  with  pensions  and  honors.  It  is 
a  quiet  way  of  buying  votes  with  public  money.  Every  time 
Congress  meets  "private  pension  bills"  are  passed  by  the 
wagon  load,  scarcely  being  glanced  at.  It  would  be  easy 
to  pension  a  man  who  had  never  had  on  a  uniform  or  seen 
a  military  camp.  No  deserter  should  have  a  dollar  of  public 
money. 

Among  the  many  deserters  of  the  Civil  War  was  a  no  less 
distinguished  person  than  Mark  Twain.  He  enrolled  in  a 
Confederate  battalion,  however,  but  deserted  before  he  reached 
the  firing  line. 

At  the  close  of  the  World  War  a  great  scandal  arose 
concerning  the  distribution  of  medals  of  honor.  Even  Auto- 
crat Wilson,  ex-Pacifist,  Ph.  D.,  L.  L.  D.,  came  proudly  out  of 
the  smoky  fray  with  a  glittering  medal  on  his  manly  chest. 
It  was  a  'chaplain's  medal,"  bestowed  by  "the  Church  of 
Christ"  for  his  great  leadership  in  winning  the  war."  The 
remarks  of  Jesus  Christ  about  Pharisees  and  hypocrites 
should  have  been  deeply  engraved  on  it,  and  would  have 
largefy  added  to  its  value.  Chaplain  Woodrow  should  now 
be  placed  on  the  "Honor  Roll'  of  the  pension  bureau  at  the 
regular  rate  of  $10  per  month.  He  is  frugal  and  thrifty  and 
would  use  the  money  wisely. 

In  June,  1921,  Rarrell  Ufford  deserted  from  Camp  Meade. 
Maryland.  He  was  "tired  of  army  life,  and  of  the  unusual 
and  often  mental  tasks  which  he  was  called  upon  to  perform." 
He  was  arrested  at  Council  Bluffs,  Iowa,  and  the  government 
paid  $60  reward  for  his  apprehension.  The  women's  clubs, 
the  lady  politicians,  and  the  masculine  degenerates,  took  up 
his  case.  Aided  by  the  daily  papers  they  made  a  hero  of 
him,  and  he  soon  returned  in  triumph  to  Sioux  City  bearing 
"an  honorable  discharge  from  the  United  'States  army." 
Iowa — my  native  State — should  be  proud  of  him,  and  her 
ablest  public  men  should  hasten  to  place  him  on  the  heavily- 
loaded  Pension  Roll  of  the  Nation. 


PROSE    ADDENDA  341 

TIIK  CALL  OF  KANSAS 

[Rival    claims    to    authorship    by    Miss    Esther    Clark,     of 
riiannt. •.   Kansas,  and   Mrs.  Emma  Clark-Karr  of  Hutchinson, 

Kansas.  | 

Surfeited  here  with    beauty,  and  the  sensuous  sweet  perfume 
Borne  in  from  a  thousand  gardens,  and  the  orchards  of  orange- 
bloom  ; 
Awed  by  the  silent  mountains,  and  stunned  by  the  breakers' 

roar — 

The  restless  ocean  pounding  and  tugging  away  at  the  shore — 
J  lie  on  the  warm  sand  beach  and  hear  above  the  cry  of  the 

sea, 

The  voice  of  the  prairie,  calling, 
Calling  me. 

Sweeter  to  me  than  the  salt  sea  spray,  the  fragrance  of  the 

summer   rains; 
Nearer  my   heart    than   the  mighty   hills  are   the   wind-swept 

Kansas  plains, 
Dearer  the  sight  of  a  shy  wild  rose  by  the  roadside's  dusty 

way 
Than   all   the   splendor   of  poppy   fields   ablaze   in   the    sun   of 

May. 

Gay  as  the  bold  poinsetta  is,  and   the  burden  of  pepper  trees, 
The  sunflower,  tawny   and  gold  and   brown,  is  richer   to  me 

than  these. 

And  rising  ever  above  the    song  of  the  hoarse,   insistent  sea, 
The  voice  of  the  prairie,  calling, 
Calling   me. 

Kansas,  Beloved   Mother,  today  in  an  alien  land, 

Yours  is  the  name  1    have  idly  traced  with  a  bit  of  wood  in 

the  sand. 
The    name   that,  sprung  from    a   scornful   lip,   will    mak»-    the 

hot   blood   start, 
The    name   that    is    graven,    hard    and    deep,   on    the    core    of 

my   loyal   heart. 
O,    hither,    clearer    and    stronger    yet    than    the    boom    of    the 

savage 

The  voice  of  the  prairie,  calling, 
Calling    inc. 


342  SO  NGS   OF   A    MAN   WHO   FAILED 

AX  ORATORICAL  GEM 

When  the  unarmed  steamer  "Lusitania"  was  sunk  by  a 
German  submarine  on  the  afternoon  of  May  7th,  1915,  1,195 
persons  perished,  great  numbers  of  them  being  women  and 
children.  Included  in  this  holocaust  were  more  than  a  hun- 
dred Americans. 

Three  days  afterwards,  in  a  public  address  at  Philadelphia, 
Woodrow  Wilson  said: 

"The  example  of  America  must  be  the  example  not  merely 
of  peace  because  America  will  not  fight,  but  of  peace  because 
peace  is  the  healing  and  elevating  influence  of  the  world  and 
strife  is  not.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  a  man  being  too  proud 
to  fight." 

Cowardly  platitudes,  unworthy  of  the  chief  magistrate  of 
this  Republic! 

Such  language,  on  such  an  occasion,  would  have  blistered 
the  lips  of  a  real  American.  On  the  maternal  side,  at  least, 
Wilson  is  of  British  parentage,  which  may  partially  explain 
his  late  eagerness  to  undo  the  work  of  Washington  and  restore 
this  great  land  to  the  British  empire  as  a  vassal  dependency, 
with  an  obsequious  Viceroy  at  Washington  City.  Also,  he  is  or 
was  a  Pacifist.  With  a  few  exceptions,  the  Pacifist  is  the 
lowest,  meanest,  most  contemptible  creature  evolved  by  civili- 
zation. He  greedily  enjoys  all  the  blessings  and  benefits 
of  well  ordered  government,  but  in  time  of  public  peril  shrinks 
from  manly  duty,  and  refuses  to  fight  for  the  government 
that  shields  him — refuses  to  defend  home,  wife,  children  and 
country.  Wars  are  brutal,  cruel,  abominable,  but  are  certain 
to  come.  Men  must  fight  or  accept  the  ancient  alternative 
of  slavish  submission  and  ruthless  oppression.  When  a  people 
sink  that  low,  farewell  to  Freedom,  Glory,  Honor  and  Progress. 
Many  of  the  so-called  Pacifists  we  have  been  bothered  with 
in  the  past  few  years,  have  been  the  paid  hirelings  of  foreign 
empires. 

"Sea  Power,"  the  naval  magazine,  in  a  recent  issue  says: 
"Pacifism  is  not  the  love  of  peace.  Every  just  man  loves 
peace.  Pacifism  is  the  unwillingness,  through  cowardice  or 
blindness,  to  bear  the  burden  of  preserving  the  safety  and 
honor  of  the  Nation.  Pacifism  is  the  folly  that  denied  prepara- 
tions to  America  against  the  growing  menace  of  Prussian 
militarism  in  the  days  immediately  before  the  war.  Pacifism 
is  the  shame  that  stifled  the  mouths  of  those  who  were 
able  to  remain  mute  when  innocent  babes  and  adult  American 
citizens  were  mercilessly  done  to  death  by  the  torpedoing 
of  the  "Lusitania."  Pacifism  is  the  treachery  that  condoned 
seditious  acts  that  tended  to  hinder  the  vigorous  prosecution 
of  the  war,  and  endangered  the  lives  and  well  being  of  the 
American  soldiers  on  the  battle  fronts  of  France." 

Let  us  hope  the  day  will  never  come  when  Americans  will 
be  "too  proud"  to  fight  for  their  country. 

Wilson's  pretended  compassion  for  peoples  and  races  thou- 


GEN.  JOHN  J.  PERSHING 
Victorious  in  France 


-  "3 °& :  c 

•  t  i  f  *  ,5  *  . 

*  »• . 

•  :  *•:  -»****t2 

• 

,• . 


PROSE    ADDENDA  343 

.sands  of  miles  away,  ill  compared  with  his  measures  of  State 
nearer  home.  When  appealed  to,  to  save  Americans  in  Mexico 
from  butchery,  with  cold-blooded  leer  he  replied:  "If  they 
don't  like  Mexico  let  them  move  out." 

He  has  shown  concern  as  to  how  his  name  will  "go  down 
in  history."  It  will  be  written  that  never  in  the  annals  of 
civilized  government  has  there  been  a  blacker  page  of  in- 
efficiency; a  more  shameless  waste  of  public  money,  a  greater 
loss  of  public  property;  bolder  usurpations  of  power  by  in- 
solent upstarts;  a  greater  and  more  useless  sacrifice  of  heroic 
blood;  or,  a  wilder  saturnalia  of  treason,  corruption,  and 
public  robberies  on  a  gigantic  scale.  Posterity  is  loaded 
down  with  burdens. 

"The  evil   men   do  lives   after  them." 


FOLLIES  AND  CRIMES  OF  THE  GRAND 
AIJTOCKACY 

The  State?     I  am  the  State. — Louis,  the  Grand  Monarch. 
I  am  the  whole  business — and  then  some. — W.  W. 
After  us  the  Deluge. — Countess  Dubarri/. 

At  the  zenith  of  imperial  greatness,  Trajan  remembered 
the  broken  veterans  of  his  wars.  He  gave  them  conquered 
lands  in  Dacia;  aided  them  to  build  homes;  repeatedly  as- 
sisted them  with  money,  and,  long  ere  he  passed  awray,  he  saw 
them  prosperous  and  happy.  After  the  close  of  the  World 
War  thousands  of  maimed  and  helpless  American  soldiers 
roamed  the  country  in  destitution  and  despair;  many  sought 
refuge  in  jails  and  alms  houses,  and  lingered  and  died  there. 
Their  claims  on  the  government  received  no  attention.  They 
had  no  medical  treatment,  no  vocational  training,  no  reha- 
bilitation, no  assistance  whatever.  Autocrat  Wilson  was  busy 
with  affairs  and  distresses  in  far  foreign  lands,  where  Amer- 
ican money  was  being  scattered  by  hundreds  of  millions.  In 
November,  1920,  in  the  pigeon  holes  at  Washington  City,  83,000 
relief  cases  awaited  attention.  Three  costly  "bureaus"  made 
a  pretense  of  operating  in  the  matter,  but  proved  only 
gn*at  hives  of  salaried  parasites  and  swivel-chair  retainers. 
Nothing  was  done  for  World  War  soldiers.  This  was  not  the 
wish  or  purpose  of  the  American  people — far  from  it.  Billions 
of  money  had  been  squandered;  new  millionaires  were  as 
thick  as  roses  in  June,  and  immediate  money  should  have 
been  had  for  the  crippled  and  ruined  human  wrecks  of  the 
war.  Not  until  the  recent  month  of  March  was  action  taken 
in  the  matter. 

In  testifying  before  a  congressional  committee,  Rear  Ad- 
miral Sims  declared  that  the  dilatory,  hesitating,  unexplain- 
able  tactics  of  Wilson  at  the  opening  of  the  war  with  Ger- 


344  SON7  GS   OF   A   MAN   WHO   FAILED 

many,  "cost  the  lives  of  500,000  soldiers,  (unnecessarily  slain), 
and  billions  of  American  treasure." 

A  military  officer  testified  thus:  "At  the  close  of  hostilities 
in  France,  there  was  not  a  tank,  an  airplane,  or  a  piece  of 
artillery  on  the  fighting  line  that  was  of  American  manufac- 
ture. From  the  allies  our  troops  obtained  all  deficiencies. 
Great  numbers  of  our  soldiers  perished  in  consequence." 
Precious  blood  shed,  billions  of  dollars  wasted,  only  to  benefit 
a  horde  of  robbers. 

A  committee  to  investigate  the  conduct  of  the  war  reported, 
among  other  things:  "Appalling  waste,  gross  dishonesty,  have 
not  been  denied  or  disputed,  except  by  the  gloss  of  rhetoric 
and  a  profusion  of  words.  While  American  soldiers  fought 
in  Europe  with  heroism  and  success,  ignorance,  corruption  and 
inefficiency  wasted  national  resources  at  home,  and  enriched 
profiteers,  scoundrels  and  plunderers."  Xo  one  should  excuse 
or  defend  such  criminal  maladministration.  Every  man  should 
denounce  it. 

Statistical  narrative  makes  dry  reading,  but  is  often  elo- 
quent of  wild  misrule  and  public  ruin.  I  have  thrown  out 
of  this  book  official  statements,  records,  summaries,  con- 
densed reports,  and  other  matters  of  the  kind,  that  would 
have  made  20  or  30  pages  of  fine  type.  I  had  no  room  for  it. 
Acts  of  waste,  fraud,  deceit,  corruption,  treason,  open  rob- 
bery— would  fill  a  volume.  Nepotism — gross,  presumptuous, 
insolent,  arrogant — flourished  unrebuked. 

The  purpose  of  the  Espionage  Act  was — not  to  apprehend 
spies,  incendiaries,  anarchists,  alien  evil  doers,  and  danger- 
ous persons  generally,  as  was  pretended.  It  was  to  suppress 
free  speech  and  free  press — to  silence  public  speakers,  and 
the  newspapers  of  the  country  especially,  concerning  the  orgy 
of  corruption,  robbery  and  treason  that  was  being  carried 
on  almost  openly. 

More  than  two  thousand  years  ago  Poly  bins  wrote  of  a 
Grecian  demagogue  "He  next  squandered  the  public  revenue, 
using  the  money  as  though  it  were  his  own,  without  authority 
of  Law,  public  decree  or  magistrate."  History  repeats  itself. 

To  squander  public  money  in  a  profligate  manner  has  long 
been  the  practice  of  demagogues.  Thus  they  popularize  them- 
selves, corrupt  the  people,  and  keep  in  power.  And  in  this 
manner  free  institutions  are  often  overthrown. 

It  was  a  feature  of  the  Grand  Autocracy  to  maintain 
swarms  of  mere  personal  claquers  and  partisan  retainers, 
without  duties  to  perform,  drawing  the  salaries  of  princes, 
and  receiving  prodigal  emoluments  such  as  pertain  to  high 
court  officials  and  imperial  favorites.  It  was  long  after  the 
fall  of  the  Autocrat  that  these  costly  parasites  were  finally 
dispensed  with.  Mr.  Harding  was  lamentably  slow  in  getting 
rid  of  them. 

"Woodrow  Wilson  has  a  genius  for  war."  Fulsome  adula- 
tion of  Sir  Josephus  Daniels. 

Underneath  the  political  chicanery  in    progress  was  a  plot 


PROSE    ADDENDA  345 

10  surrender  the  independence  of  this  country  to  Europe, 
and  unload  the  bonded  indebtedness  of  Europe  on  the  people 
of  this  country.  The  game  is  still  going  on.  Public  robbers 
would  be  an  evil  sufficient,  but  we  have  had  traitors  and 
parricides  in  the  land.  Catiline's  conspiracy  was  a  village 
affair  in  comparison  with  what  has  been  transpiring  in 
America  the  past  few  years.  A  volume  would  not  contain 
mere  mention  of  the  prodigal  mismanagement,  waste,  treason, 
reckless  extravagance,  wild  squandering,  enormous  looting, 
perpetrated  during  the  Autocratic  Regime. 

During  an  illegal  and  despotic  reign  of  five  years  in  Haiti, 
the  Grand  Autocracy  massacred  not  less  than  five  thousand 
unarmed  people,  and  the  number  of  Haitians  who  perished 
in  autocratic  prisons  has  been  estimated  at  over  eleven  thou- 
sand. A  fine  record  to  leave  to  after  times.  Another  Ander- 
son ville! 

Those  of  our  citizens  who  believe  in  a  government  "of  the 
people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people" — who  believe  the  voters 
of  the   country   need    no   master,   but    have   ability   to  govern 
themselves — such   men   felt   dee])   humiliation   when   troops   of 
congressmen    wended    their    way    to    the    White    House,    and 
craved  permission  of  Tumulty  to  see  the    Autocrat,  that   he 
might    kindly    indicate    to   them    which    laws    they    would    be 
allowed  to  pass,  and  which  he  desired  cbnsigned  to  oblivion. 
Had  he  been  a  Cromwell,  a  Caesar,  a  Napoleon  or  Hannibal- 
one  "born  to  command" — there  might  have  been  excuse  for  a 
scene  so  degrading — but  a  Wilson,  bah!  Hamilton,  John  Adams 
and    others,    may    be    pardoned    for    believing    no     people    can 
govern  themselves.     When  our  seat  of  government  was  moved 
to  Paris,  to  Rome,  to  Windsor  Castle — to  the  bed  rooms  and 
banquet  halls  of   foreign  kings — when  the  descendant  of  King 
Powhatan   was   welcomed   by   the  Queen    of   England,   not   an 
American    citizen   protested,   save   in    whispers.      Tacit  us   tells 
us  that  when  Nero  had  in  view  a  long  journey    to  his  Asiatic 
provinces,   "he    assured    the   citizens   that   his   absence   would 
not  be  of  long  continuance,  and  that  the  commonwealth  in  all 
its    parts  would  continue  in  the  same  perfect  quiet  and  pros- 
perity."     Then    he    abandoned    his    intended     absence    from 
Rome,  "earnestly  declaring  that  every  other  consideration  with 
him  was  absorbed  by  his  love  for  his  country;    that  he  had 
seen  the  sad  countenances  of  the  citizens,  and  heard  their  ill 
suppressed  complaints,  accustomed  as  they  were  to  be  revived 
under  misfortunes  by  the  sight  oC  their  prince.     Their  pledges 
of  affection  had   been  so  numerous,  and   had  with  him   such 
a   weight,   that   he   must    yield    to  their  wishes  and   renounce 
his  journey."     Bunk    is  not   an   article    entirely    new.      It    ap- 
pears to   have  been   used   long   before   the   time   of  Woodrow 
Augustus.     American    flunkies    did    not   even   show   sorrow   at 
Woodrow's    departure.      They    slobbered     all    over    him.      For 
groveling,    fawning   servility,   the   American    flunky    surpasses 
all  flunkies  of  the  world.     "An  Englishman  loves  a  lord."    The 
American    flunky    is    not    a    whit    behind    him.      With     what 


346  SONGS   OF   A    MAN   WHO    FAILED 

ease  did  a  blathering  pedagogue  make  himself  imperial  master 
of  America,  clinging  to  "war  powers"  to  the  last  minute  he 
was  in  the  White  House — nearly  two  and  a  half  years  after 
the  war  ended.  The  day  is  not  distant  when  the  traveler  from 
Patagonia  will  exclaim 

"Approach,   thou  creeping,  crawling  slave, 
And   tell  me— Is  this  Bunker  Hill?" 

In  imitation  of  Emperors  of  Rome,  Wilson  delivered 
harangues  to  Congress,  instead  of  following  the  time-honored 
custom  of  communicating  by  message.  This  imperial  fashion 
has  also  been  adopted  by  Harding.  No  president  should  enter 
the  halls  of  the  Capitol  excepting  for  inaugural  purposes,  or 
by  special  invitation  of  both  houses  of  Congress.  It  savors 
too  much  of  intimidation.  The  vast  patronage  of  the  Presi- 
dent should  be  greatly  reduced,  in  order  that  members  of 
Congress  need  never  be  subservient  to  the  executive  will  for 
any  reason  whatsoever.  A  large  part  of  the  patronage  of  the 
presidential  office  should  be  entrusted  to  the  Senate,  or  be 
otherwise  disposed  of.  It  is  another  case  of  King  John  and 
his  barons.  The  constitution  of  the  Confederate  States  pro- 
vided that  a  president  should  serve  but  one  term  of  six  years, 
and  be  ineligible  for  re-election.  We  should  adopt  a  similar 
provision.  It  would  give  us  much  better  service.  Wilson, 
the  ex-Pacifist,  made  his  private  physician  a  Rear  Admiral 
in  the  Navy — an  insult  to  the  heroes  who  sail  the  seas. 
Harding  follows  in  Woodrow's  footsteps.  He  has  made  an 
Ohio  doctor  a  Brigadier  General  of  the  Army.  Why  should 
not  the  President's  barber  be  a  Colonel,  or  his  bootblack 
a  Captain  in  the  Army,  or  the  Chambermaid  of  the  White 
House  a  Rear  Admireless  of  the  Navy?  Congress  should 
rise  in  its  wrath  and  smash  such  business.  Let  our  presidents 
pay  their  own  doctor  bills,  and  cease  to  belittle  honored 
titles  of  the  Army  and  the  Navy.  Why  should  not  every 
senator  put  his  doctor  on  the  pay  roll  of  the  Nation,  and  give 
him  a  title?  Down  with  such  contemptible  work — work  so 
highly  injurious. 

When  son-in-law  McAdoo  retired  from  public  cares  and 
worries,  he  bought  a  modest  home-place  in  the  most  beautiful 
part  of  California,  that  cost  him  $1,200,000.  Not  satisfied 
entirely,  he  bought  another  place  on  Long  Island,  near  New 
York  City.  Woodrow,  before  leaving  the  presidency,  bought 
a  fine  senatorial  mansion  in  Washington  City.  Brother-in-law 
Boiling  should  have  a  villa  at  the  national  capital  also.  This 
illustrious  family  deserves  to  be  well  housed. 

Mr.  Wilson  was  head  official  of  the  Red  Cross  throughout 
the  war.  It  is  vain  to  think  he  kept  a  closer  scrutiny  on  its 
immense  expenditures  than  he  did  on  the  still  vaster  ex- 
penditures of  the  general  government.  He  made  one  contri- 
bution to  the  Red  Cross.  An  ambitious  eastern  town  gave 
him  a  handsome  summer  bungalow  worth  ten  or  twelve 
thousand  dollars.  With  much  hesitancy  he  accepted  the 


PROS!.     A  DDK  XI)  A  347 

coupled    with   a    donation    of   $2,500    to  -the    Red   Cr»>s.~. 
.  the  donation  was  announced. 

In  a  small  western  town  a  lady  said: 

"Our  little  Red  Cross  raised  $1900,  and  put  it  in  the  local 
bank.  When  we  needed  some  of  it  for  a  worthy  home  purpose, 
we  found  that  we  couldn't  get  a  dollar.  The  bank  refused  to 
pay  us.  The  money  we  had  deposited  was  out  of  our  control 
entirely." 

A    stranger    from    the    planet    Mars    might   have    inquired: 

"Well,  who  got  the  Red  Cross  money?     You  say  you  raised 
million  dollars.     Where's  it  gone?" 

"See  the  higher-up." 

"Who  is   the   higher-up?" 

"That  'broken  man' — 'poor  old  Wood  row  Wilson' — 'the  rich- 
est president  that  ever  left  the  White  House.'  His  head 
clerk  is  part  of  the  government  now,  notwithstanding  the 
great  and  solemn  referendum." 

At  1107  Broadway,  in  Xew  York  City,  is  published  one  of 
the  finest  and  most  costly  magazines  in  the  United  States. 
All  its  expenses  are  paid  out  of  the  ordinary  receipts  of  a 
newly  established  publication,  and  out  of  funds  raised  "to  feed 
the  starving  women  and  children  of  Europe."  It  is  called 
"The  Red  Cress  Magazine,"  and  in  a  prominent  place  a  line 
reads:  "Owned  and  published  by  the  American  Red  Cross." 
At  the  head  of  a  page  appears  the  names  of  all  the  chief 
officials  of  the  Red  Cross,  and  at  the  very  top  stands  the 
name  of  Woodrow  Wilson.  His  health  is  not  so  bad  as  to 
require  him  to  quit  this  position.  The  "Red  Cross  Magazine" 
has  never  been  known  to  speak  of  Mr.  Wilson  excepting  in 
terms  of  unbounded  admiration.  His  various  schemes  and 
propaganda  have  received  hearty  approval,  and  his  "lovely 
character."  "high  ideals"  and  "charming  personality"  have 
been  extolled  to  the  limit.  On  cash  obtained  from  somewhere, 
still  another  propaganda  periodical  is  published  at  No.  70, 
Fifth  Avenue,  Xew  York  City.  It  is  called  "The  League  Of 
Xations  Magazine." 

In  Xew  York  City  many  gentlemen  of  literary  skill  have 
been  known,  at  the  proper  time,  to  portray  moving  tales  of 
Turkish  atrocities  in  Armenia  with  such  force  and  power 
that  they  opened  the  money  tills  of  the  public  with  greater 
speed  tlrm  most  accomplished  burglars  could  have  done.  It 
.oderately  computed  that  these  gentlemen  have  massacred 
more  Armenians,  in  the  past  fifteen  years,  than  would  people 
the  whole  western  hemisphere.  Still,  when  necessary,  another 
million  Armenians  march  up  with  a  smile  to  meet  the  Turkish 
butcher  knife.  Red  Cross  "workers"  have  swarmed  all  over 
Europe  and  Asia,  stopping  at  fine  hotels,  and  enjoying  full 
rank,  title,  salary  and  .emoluments  of  regular  army  officers: 
having  fine  times;  praising  the  Grand  Autocracy  (of  course), 
and  devouring  the  money  so  freely  contributed  to  feed  "starv- 
ing women  and  children."  Just  before  the  Armenian  mandate 
was  kindly  tendered  to  the  American  peqple,  there  were  five 


348  SONGS   OF   A   MAN   WHO    FAILED 

hundred  of  these  harpies    on  the  pay  roll  of  the  "Near  East 
Relief  Association." 

In  spite  of  autocratic  censorship  a  little  news  crossed  the 
ocean  occasionally.  Here  follows  a  telegraphic  story  that 
came  from  Constantinople  under  date  of  September  30,  1920. 
At  an  official  hearing  held  on  that  date,  Lieutenant-Colonel 
Coombs,  "Director  of  the  Armenian  Relief  Association,"  ad- 
mitted that  many  expensive  dinners  to  "high  foreign  officials," 
had  been  paid  for  out  of  the  relief  funds;  also,  that  cham- 
pagne and  wines  figured  in  the  menus;  that  one  bill  for  a 
dinner  in  the  preceding  July  amounted  to  $350;  that  Russian 
singers  and  Turkish  dancers  entertained  at  these  affairs. 
The  trading  of  flour  at  Batum  for  two  car  loads  of  whisky 
"was  a  matter  outside  of  the'  Colonel's  jurisdiction."  He  con- 
ceded that  "the  affairs  of  the  Near  East  organization  had 
been  so  conducted  that  it  was  impossible  to  prove  the  alleged 
shortages."  The  money  to  pay  for  all  this,  (and  a  thousand 
scandals  beside)  was  freely  furnished  by  the  over-generous 
American  public.  During  the  World  War  hypocrites  and 
grafters  had  a  veritable  saturnalia.  It  was  high  treason  to 
write  or  breathe  a  word  on  the  subject.  It  is  a  long  call 
from  the  Near  East  to  the  far  West,  but  great  was  the  boodle 
thereof.  Jesus  Christ  had  a  fierce  dislike  of  hypocrites.  He 
could  never  speak  of  them  in  polite  language,  or  without  a 
show  of  intense  anger. 

Mahomet  described  Hell  as  a  place  with  seven  floors  or 
levels,  and  the  last  floor  down — the  hottest  and  worst — he 
reserved  for  hypocrites.  By  this  time  it  must  be  much 
crowded.  Additional  accommodations  will  need  to  be  pro- 
vided. A  considerable  part  of  the  money  the  American  people 
spilled  out  by  hundreds  of  millions,  "for  the  sick  and  wounded 
soldiers  in  France,"  and  for  "starving  women  and  children," 
went  to  maintain  hypocrites  and  grafters  in  comfort  and 
luxury.  More  of  it  went  in  political  and  personal  propaganda. 
It  went  in  many  ways  not  anticipated.  Engineering  "great 
drives"  became  a  profession — a  lucrative  one.  Lawyers,  stu- 
dents, professors,  threw  aside  their  books,  to  "work  for  Jesus," 
as  it  was  blasphemously  termed.  Respectable  looking  girls 
stopped  strange  gentlemen  on  the  sidewalks  of  large  cities,  and 
solicited  money  for  "the  starving  Armenians,"  the  Bohunks, 
the  Finns,  the  Slovaks,  etc. — a  dangerous  and  demoralizing 
method.  "  The  money  went  to  "headquarters" — the  last  that 
was  usually  heard  of  it,  unless  it  turned  up  in  some  oriental 
banquet  hall.  Charity  now  begins— not  at  home— but  away 
off  somewhere  thousands  of  miles.  The  farther  off  the  better 
and  more  profitable. 

'  The  Bergdoll  opera  bouffe  is  still  fresh  in  the  public  mind. 
Some  ambitious  youth  eager  to  "fire  the  Ephesian  dome," 
should  soar  into  public  fame  with  a  World  War  opera  to  rival 
"Pinafore"  entitled  "Bergdoll's  Pot  Of  .Gold."  There  might 
be  more  money  in  the  opera  than  there  was  in  the  pot.  An 
international  burlesque  was  the  award  of  the  Nobel  prize 


PROSK    ADDENDA  349 

to  Wood  row  Wilson  "for  his  great  work  in  keeping  the  world 
war."     Attached    to  it  was  a  sack  of  European  gold — 

This  went  into  his  strong  box.     He  has  ever  been 

thrifty — too  penurious,  in  fact,  to  comply  with  the  most 
meagre  social  requirements  of  the  White  House.  In  December 
last  he  had  the  impudence,  the  stupidity,  the  unconscious 
irony,  or  the  unintended  humor,  to  say  this  to  Congress: 

"I  cannot  over-emphasize  the  necessity  of  economy  in  gov- 
ernment appropriations  and  expenditures,  and  the  avoidance 
by  Congress  of  practices  which  take  money  from  the  treasury." 

And  this  with  wasted  treasure  scattered  around  by  billions! 
The  wisest    imperial  command   he  ever  gave    (wise  for  him- 
was  this:      "There  must  be  no  inquiry  into  the  conduct 
of   the    war." 

Of  son-in-law  McAdoo,  "Leslie's  Weekly"  says:  "If,  for 
every  minute  of  time  since  the  beginning  of  the  Christian 
era,  three  dollars  had  been  cast  into  the  sea,  the  sum  would 
not  equal  what  he  threw  away  in  his  profligate  mismanage- 
;  of  the  railroads.  It  exceeds  the  whole  cost  of  the  Civil 
War,  and  is  the  most  stupendous  waste  in  human  history." 

They  who  believe  that  Mr.  Wilson  is  a  mild,  benevolent  old 
gentleman  led  estray  by  visonary  hopes;  high-minded,  altru- 
istic designs,  and  wholly  impracticable  ideas;  that  he  has 
been  so  engrossed  with  plans  and  struggles  for  the  welfare 
of  mankind  that  he  was  unable  to  give  to  public  affairs  the 
close  attention  he  desired — all  such  persons  should  be  se,nt  to 
the  Home  of  the  Feeble  Minded. 

Money  for  profiteers,  hypocrites,  grafters,  Asiatics,  mush- 
room governments — money  by  the  millions,  and  by  the  hun- 
dreds of  millions — but  not  a  dime  for  the  crippled,  homeless, 
used-up  American  soldier.  Presiding  Elder  Wilson,  of  the 
"hard  boiled"  Presbyterian  cult,  had  been  too  busy  to  care 
for  the  soldier.  From  the  Lincoln  (Neb.)  "Star"  I  quote  one 
case  out  of  tens  of  thousands.  On  April  25,  1921,  the  "Star" 
said: 

"The  incredible  tale  of  a  Lincoln  wounded  ex-service  man, 
bearing  German  bayonet  scars  and  bullet  wounds  received  in 
the  St.  Mihiel  drive,  blinded  by  chlorine  gas  in  the  left  eye 
and  with  one  lung  gone,  broke,  sick  and  penniless,  wandering 
on  the  streets  of  Lincoln  by  day  and  sleeping  on  a  bench  in 
Antelope  park  by  night,  was  accidentally  disclosed  and  investi- 
gated. *  For  a  week  George  A.  Morrison  of  the  Eighty- 
ninth  division,  slept  on  the  benches  or  the  band  stand  at 
Antelope  park,  less  sheltered  during  the  cold  nights  than  the 
wild  animals  that  are  comfortably  caged  there.  Morrison  with 
two  brothers  enlisted  in  1917.  One  brother  was  killed  at  St. 
Mihiel  and  the  other  at  Chateau  Thierry.  Morrison  himself 
3  wounded  at  St.  Mihiel  and  while  in  a  hospital  the  influ- 
enza carried  away  his  father,  mother,  sister  and  wife.  After 
nding  14  months  in  a  hospital,  he  returned  to  Lincoln, 
his  former  home.  He  had  been  away  almost  three  years.  X<> 


350  SONGS   OF   A   MAN   WHO   FAILED 

one   knew   him.     His   folks   were   dead— every   one.     He   had 
no  home,  no  friends.     He    was  broke,  sick  and  half-starved." 

The  Red  Cross  had  "turned  him  down"  because  they  "had 
no  record  of  Morrison."  How  many  records  have  they  of 
"the  starving  Armenians"  or  "the  suffering  Slovaks?"  The 
American  Legion  came  to  the  rescue,  and  suitably  cared  for 
the  ruined  veteran.  In  the  whole  United  States  there 
have  been  tens  of  thousands  of  such  cases.  The  Autocracy 
was  too  busy  looking  after  Europeans  and  Asiatics,  to  care 
anything  about  unfortunate  Amercans.  To  its  everlasting 
shame,  it  was  too  busy  to  care  for  the  gallant  soldiers  who 
came  back  from  Europe  crippled,  penniless  and  health-broken. 
No  "high  ideals"  applied  to  them.  Well  may  the  Future 
shower  curses  on  the  Grand  Autocracy. 

Any  administration  of  affairs  on  a  vast  scale  will  be  marred 
by  examples  of  waste,  inefficiency,  dishonesty,  or  even  stu- 
pidity, but  where  the  dark  record  is  unbroken  for  years,  and 
brings  ruin  in  its  train,  there  must  be  astounding  blunders, 
or  crimes,  or  both  commingled.  Napoleon  declared  that  in 
great  affairs  a  blunder  was  worse  than  a  crime.  The  Auto- 
cracy had  blunders  and  crimes  to  an  amazing  extent.  History 
will  rend  away  its  veil  of  selfishness,  hypocrisy  and  selt'- 
righteous  deceit. 

The  Armistice  was  signed  on  November  11,  1918;  the  Peace 
Resolution,  on  July  2,  1921.  A  long,  expensive  and  dangerous 
interregnum.  Cause  of  delay — the  stupid  selfishness  of  one 
vain  official,  and  the  hidden  plots  of  greedy  foreign  con- 
spirators. 

In  July,  1921,  Ford's  "Dearborn  Independent"  declared: 
"Persons  next  to  the  government  profited  more  than  $60,000,000 
by  having  advance  information  of  the  contents  of  Mr.  Wilson's 
great  diplomatic  note." 


ETERXAL  TORTURE  CHAMBER  OF 
THE  GODS 

They  lavish  adulation  on  a  Being  whom,  in  sober  truth, 
they  depict  as  eminently  hateful.  All  ages  and  nations  have 
represented  their  gods  as  wicked  in  a  constantly  increasing 
progression,  adding  trait  after  trait,  till  the  most  perfect  ex- 
pression of  wickedness  has  been  reached  which  the  human 
mind  can  devise.  Calling  this  "God,"  they  have  prostrated 
themselves  before  it.  Think  of  a  being  who  would  make  a 
Hell — then  create  the  human  race  with  the  infallible  fore- 
knowledge, and  therefore  the  intention,  that  the  great  ma- 
jority of  them  should  be  consigned  to  horrible  and  everlasting 
torments. — J.  8.  Mill. 

Man  built  himself  a  deity  to  take  the  place  of  the  Unseen 
Intelligence  that  controls  the  infinite,  endless,  eternal  Uni- 


PROSE    ADDENDA  351 

verse.  To  this  deity,  from  age  to  age,  Man  has  added  new 
and  ferocious  attributes.  At  last  we  have  the  incarnation 
of  a  most  abhorrent  fiend.  This  god  creates  a  Hell  of  un- 
imaginable horrors,  of  endless  miseries  and  tortures,  then 
creates  .Man  to  fill  it.  With  foreknowledge  of  all  things,  he  so 
arranges  the  world  that  nine-tenths  of  humanity  must  writhe 
in  I  loll  for  eternities  everlasting — without  end.  Then  Man 
bows  down  and  worships  this  monster.  Could  anything  be 
more  pitiable  or  more  laughable? — Murklnnrt. 

This  world  is  utterly  indifferent  to  the  souls  that  are  rush- 
ing headlong  into  Hell. — E.  A.  Ferycrnon. 

Punishment  in  a  world  to  come  is  an  idle  fable. — Cin  ro. 

Man  invented  his  deities  and  devils. — John  Burrtnujl,*. 

Into  Hell  1  fain  would  go,  for  into  Hell  fare  the  goodly 
scholars,  and  the  goodly  knights  that  fall  in  tourneys  and 
great  wars;  and  stout  men-at-arms,  and  all  men  noble.  With 
these  I  would  go. — Atiravxiu. 

Hell!  Jehovah!  eternal  torture  chamber  of  this  ferocious 
fiend. — As1il<-.u. 


DI'X'ADKNCK  OF  A  RACK 

"The  female  of  the  species  is  the  deadlier,"  writes  poet 
Kipling. 

From  John  Burroughs,  the  naturalist,  I  closely  condense 
thus:  "Among  insects  the  females  dominate.  The  malignant 
mosquito  that  torments  us  is  the  female.  Among  spiders, 
scorpions,  etc.,  the  female,  in  sexual  fury,  kills  and  devours 
the  male.  When  food  is  scarce,  female  spiders  also  devour 
their  offspring.  Bees  have  queens  to  rule  them.  The  female 
bees  kill  the  males.  The  honey  work  is  done  by  neuters,  under 
female  supervision.  In  the  world  of  plants  the  male  sex 
dominates.  Among  animals  (wherein  Man  -is  classed)  the 
male  is  master,  and  females  take  a  secondary  place." 

Among  ants  tin-  fighting  is  done  by  males,  who  often  cam- 
paign in  large  armies,  and  turn  aside  for  nothing  whatever. 
Work  is  largely  done  by  slaves  captured  in  battle — Man's 
ancient  custom,  not  entirely  relinquished,  and  always  liable 
to  be  re-adopted. 

The  so-called  "elevation  of  Woman"  denotes  the  degeneracy 
of  Man.  He  is  giving  up  the  place  Nature  assigned  him.  The 
participation  of  Woman  in  public  affairs,  and  her  approaching 
domination  therein,  is  a  violation  of  the  laws  of  Nature. 
Nature  is  merciless,  and  will  impose  a  grievous  penalty, 
probably  at  first,  in  the  form  of  wide  social,  financial  and 
political  demoralization.  Prosperity  will  cease,  domestic  ties 
be  loosened,  chivalrous  ideas  be  thrown  to  the  discard,  the 
institution  of  marriage  may  be  endangered,  puritanic  oppres- 
sions and  religious  persecutions  may  follow.  If,  in  a  fast 
decaying  civilization,  Man,  the  degenerate,  has  lost  his  natural 


352  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

position,  so  also  will  Woman  lose  hers.  False  conditions 
will  produce  a  social  catacylsm.  The  fanatics  of  to-day  will 
be  the  serfs,  coolies  and  chattels  of  tomorrow.  Instead  of 
peace,  order,  freedom,  greatness  and  prosperity,  there  will 
be  crime,  disorder,  tyranny,  war,  slavery,  concubinage  and 
polygamy.  Well  may  these  hordes  of  busy  bodies  exclaim 
with  Countess  Dubarry:  "After  us  the  deluge."  To  avert  the 
complete  destruction  of  American  civilization,  it  may  be  neces- 
sary to  return  to  despotic  forms  of  government. 

Woman  is  no  more  fit  for  the  right  of  suffrage  than  the 
children  in  our  public  schools  are.  A  creature  of  sentiment 
and  emotion,  she  will  be  the  mere  dupe  of  Treason,  Supersti- 
tion, and  fanatical  propaganda.  The  work  is  already  under 
way.  Our  mothers  and  grandmothers  lived  without  the  ballot, 
and  never  wanted  it.  Neither  did  they  roam  the  streets,  in 
daylight,  in  bedroom  attire.  For  this,  and  other  honorable 
peculiarities,  we  hold  them  in  veneration.  Old  men  look  on 
with  wonder  and  amazement  at  the  startling  spectacle  of 
swarms  of  blooming  girls,  and  bedizzened,  shrivelled-up  old 
dames,  pouring  along  the  sidewalks  in  the  reception  costumes 
of  the  demi-monde.  When  the  women  and  the  preachers  have 
run  the  country  to  hell,  the  sword,  at  last,  will  straighten 
things  out? 

Take  a  walk  through  the  State  House  of  Nebraska.  It's 
like  wandering  through  a  Turkish  harem.  What  hordes  of 
feminines!  Here  and  there  sits  a  meek  and  lonely  man, 
under  feminine  supervision.  All  this  is  a  violation  of  the 
laws  of  Nature.  These  women  should  be  at  home  making  beds, 
baking  bread,  sewing  garments,  raising  babies,  training  up 
future  men  and  women.  That  is  the  work  Nature  designed 
them  for.  That  is  the  work  which,  in  course  of  time,  their 
successors  will  return  to — after  wild  commotions  have  torn 
the  land  to  pieces,  and  the  cannon  and  the  sword  have  re- 
established order.  A  great  electric  storm  clears  a  noxious 
atmosphere,  but  'present  institutions  will  change  materially. 


SECESSION  MOVEMENT   IX  THE 
PHILIPPINES 

[Written   in   July,   1921.] 

In  1899,  at  Warren,  Ohio,  President  McKinley  said: 
"We  are  in  the  Philippines.  We  have  acquired  that  territory, 
not  by  conquest  alone,  but  by  purchase  and  solemn  treaty. 
It  is  ours  just  as  much  as  any  part  of  our  great  public  domain. 
Our  flag  is  there,  rightfully  there;  as  rightfully  as  the  flag 
that  floats  above  me  here  today.  It  is  there,  not  as  the  flag 
of  tyranny  or  as  the  symbol  of  slavery,  but  it  is  there  for 
what  it  is  here  and  for  what  it  is  everywhere — for  justice 
and  law  and  liberty  and  civilization." 


PRO  SI     ADDENDA  353 

\Yoodro\v  the  .Munificent  not  only  aspired  to  give  away 
Auu'ricaii  money  by  hundreds  of  millions,  but  there  is  reason 
.•lieve  he  tried  io  uive  away  territorial  possessions  of  the 
American  people.  In  spite  of  Asiatic  plots  and  sentimental 
platitudes,  it  can  be  truthfully  said  that  we  have  as  good 
a  claim  to  Dewey's  Archipelago  as  we  have  to  New  Jersey, 
Louisiana,  Illinois  or  Alaska,  and  a  better  claim  than  we  have 
ID  Texas.  \\Y  do  not  put  men  in  place  at  Washington  City 
to  "lift  ii])  weaker  races,"  nor  to  prostitute  high  official  posi- 
tions in  the  interest  of  foreign  empires,  but  to  advance  the 
glory  and  welfare  of  the  American  Republic  and  the  American 
people.  That  is  what  our  government  is  for. 

To  throw  the  islands  open  to  Japanese  immigration;  to  con- 
fer citizenship  on  the  Japs,  and  then  set  up  a  pretended 
"independent  government,"  would  be  merely  to  hand  the 
Archipelago  over  to  Japan,  and  for  that  -purpose  alone  a 
pending  "treaty"  was  concocted.  Wilson  schemed  at  the  job 
for  seven  years,  encouraged  by  Great  Britain,  if  not  instigated 
by  that  power. 

It  is  not  wise  or  desirable  to  cultivate  animosities  between 
Anglo-Saxon  nations,  for  they  have  enemies  enough  as  it  is. 
Neither  is  it  wise  to  believe  that  serious  trouble  between  this 
country  and  England  is  an  impossibility — something  not  to  be 
thought  of.  England  was  eager  to  interfere  in  our  Civil  War. 
till  the  genius  of  Ericsson  stopped  her.  She  is  ever  on  the 
alert  to  increase  the  power  and  permanency  of  the  British 
Empire.  We  have  no  right  to  complain  of  that,  so  long  as 
the  sovereignty,  territorial  possessions,  and  independence  of 
our  own  country  are  not  involved.  When  our  territories,  inter- 

-  and  independence  are  endangered,  we  should  be  wide 
awake  and  very  ready  to  defend  what  Fortune  and  valor 
have  given  us.  For  peace,  war  and  diplomacy  a  close  alliance 
exists  between  England  and  Japan. 

While  Borah,  the  preachers,  and  misguided  women,  have 
been  screaming  for  the  disarming  of  the  American  nation, 
Japan  has  been  straining  every  nerve  to  provide  airships,  sub- 
marines, battleships  and  munitions,  and,  with  feverish  haste, 
British  shipyards  are  building  all  manner  of  naval  fleets  for 
Japan.  Just  across  the  boundary  line  of  Canada  the  British 
government  has  installed  an  immense  plant  for  building  and 
equipping  air  fleets  with  enough  powerful  explosives  to  blow 
down  all  the  great  cities  of  the  United  States,  Washington 
City  included.  These  matters  are  notorious. 

Chinese  and  Japanese  coolies  should  be  rigidly  excluded 
from  this  country,  and  if  we  must  have  a  war  Over  "racial 
equality"  and  the  coolie  question,  let  the  war  come.  We 
should  be  willing  to  fight  to  keep  the  land  our  forefathers 
left  us.  This  country  needs  no  immigration  of  any  kind. 
The  world  is  overpopulated.  A  hundred  years  hence  America 
will  be  as  crowded  as  Europe  is  to-day. 

No  Japanese  coolie  is  allowed  to  land  in  a  British  port, 
but  he  may  enter  this  country  with  impunity.  Such  a  state 

23 


354  SONGS    OF    A    MAX    WHO    FAILED 

of  affairs  should  be  rectified  at  once,  and  in  a  manner  most 
thorough. 

At  all  times  our  Nation  should  be  kept  in  reasonable  readi- 
ness for  unavoidable  war. 

(I  have  never  yet  seen  this  country  prepared  for  war — when 
the  war  arrived.  I  never  expect  to  see  it  so  prepared.  There 
are  too  many  traitors  and  Idiots  in  the  land.  Some  day  the 
Nation  will  have  to  swallow  a  terrible  dose  of  disaster  and 
shame. ) 

We  have  been  under  threat  of  "war  with  Japan,"  for  a 
long  time.  This  is  growing  tiresome. 

An  article  in  the  British  "Edinburgh  Review"  of  April, 
1921,  contends  that  the  Asiatic  coolie  is  not  at  all  adapted 
for  English  colonies  in  South  Africa,  but  is  completely  adapted 
for  "taking  the  place  of  the  Latin  American  mongrels  in  South 
and  Central  America."  Nothing  is  said  about  the  fate  of  the 
American  "mongrels"  in  the  United  States.  They  are  to  be 
attended  to  later  on,  perhaps.  It  is  time  to  announce  a 
positive,  a  decisive  policy,  concerning  the  yellow  skins.  They 
should  be  rigidly  excluded,  not  only  from  the  United  States 
but  from  the  American  hemisphere.  Cringing  and  crawling 
and  begging  at  the  foot  of  the  Japanese  throne  should  cease. 
It  should  be  known,  in  unmistakeable  terms,  that  the  American 
people  have  resolved  to  keep  the  yellow  race  out  of  this  coun- 
try if  they  have  to  fight  to  a  finish  not  only  Japan,  but  also 
her  secret  supporter,  Great  Britain.  Public  opinion  in  the 
Canadian  Dominion,  in  New  Zealand  and  in  Australia,  is 
strongly  averse  to  any  British  alliance  with  Japan  for  a  war 
with  this  country.  Once  for  all  the  Coolie  question  should 
be  settled,  and  settled  for  all  time.  The  Japanese  barbarian 
should  be  barred  from  the  shores  of  the  western  hemisphere, 
and  Dewey's  Archipelago  should  not  be  surrendered  to  soothe 
and  placate  him.  If  that  is  not  American  public  opinion,  the 
future  of  this  country  is  indeed  clouded,  and  the  sentimental 
degenerates  of  to-day  are  rearing  children  to  be  the  slaves 
of  Asiatic  masters.  We  must  be  ready  to  fight  for  our  country 
or  lose  it. 

During  the  past  summer  Count  Okuma,  the  Bismarck  of 
Japan,  made  a  tour  of  our  great  cities,  and  addressed  large 
audiences  of  stupid  or  corrupt  Americans,  being  seconded  in 
his  efforts  by  subsidized  preachers,  subsidized  professors,  and 
by  deluded,  hysterical  women.  To  the  idiots,  knaves,  hypo- 
crites and  degenerates  who  assembled  to  greet  him,  he  declared 
that  the  Japanese  heart  overflowed  with  love  for  the  great 
and  generous  American  people.  In  an  outburst  of  pathetic 
sorrow  he  deplored  the  circulation  of  evil  reports  about  the 
humane  and  peaceful  Japs,  and  declared  that  any  idea  of 
trouble  between  America  and  Japan  was  too  preposterous  to 
be  even  thought  of.  Unfortunately  for  these  treacherous  pre- 
tences, he  is  on  record  for  opinions  of  quite  a  different  sort. 
In  the  City  of  Tokio,  in  1916,  he  outlined,  advocated  and  pre- 
dicted the  conquest  of  the  world  by  the  yellow  races,  and 


1'ROSF.    A  l)I)i:\  DA  355 

ilu>  reduction  of  the  white  race  to  a  condition  of  literal,  un- 
disguised  slavery.      (See  "Quarterly  Review"  of  April,  1921.) 
With   Asiatic  arrogance  he  wrote:     "China  is  our  ste<^d.     We 
will  arm  and  drill  the  Chinese;  then  will  follow  a  temporary 
alliance   with   Russia.     After  that,  the  conquest  of  the  world. 
As   for  America,  that  fatuous  booby   with   much   money   and 
sentiment,    but    no    cohesion,    and    no    brains    of    government, 
were  she  alone  we  should  not  need  our  China  steed.    America 
is   an   immense   melon,  ripe  for  the  cutting.     North   America 
will  support  a  thousand  million  people;  they  shall  be  Japanese, 
with  their  slaves."     Who  are  to  be  the  slaves?     The  children 
or    grandchildren    of    miserable    American    degenerates,    who 
clamor   for    "peace   at   any   price."     Slaves   to  Asiatic   yellow 
skins!      Better  to  perish  on  the  battle  field.     Better  still,  to 
keep  reasonably  ready  for  war;   to  fight  victoriously,  and  to 
exterminate  the  last  one  of  the  insolent  invaders.     "There  is 
nothing  new   under  the  sun" — no  New  Day.     What  has  hap- 
pened before  will  happen  again.    Strong  races  will  continue  to 
over-run  countries  held   by  races  too  feeble  or  too  cowardly 
to  fight.    Men  too  effeminate  and  contemptible  to  defend  their 
homes,  families  and  native  land,  will  become  the  slaves  of  the 
conquering   race,   and   will   deserve   to    be.      They   are   fit  for 
nothing  else.     Many  years  ago  a  distinguished  scientist  pre- 
dicted that  the  white  race  would  degenerate  on  the  western 
hemisphere.    We  see  many  evidences  in  support  of  his  theory. 
In  August,  1918,  Mexican  soldiers  killed  American  soldiers 
and  citizens  on  American  soil.     Before  and  after  that,  many 
other  gross  outrages  occurred.     In  retaliation  we  should  have 
seized   vast   unoccupied   territories    in    northern    Mexico,    and 
prepared  them  for  settlement  and  civilization.     Their  untilled 
mountains  and  wild  fastnesses  would  have  yielded  coal,  oil, 
silver,  gold;  all  fruits,  grains,  minerals;  the  returned  soldiers 
from  France  could  have  found  homes,  employment  and  riches 
there;   half  a  dozen  wealthy  and  powerful  states  would  have 
resulted    in   twenty-five   years,   and   the   Mexicans   themselves 
would  have  been  vastly  benefited.     We  did  riot  do  anything 
because  England  and  Japan  did   not   so  desire.     They   acted 
through  the  Grand  Autocracy.     The  world  is   overpopulated, 
and  the  evil,  great  as  it  is,  will  be  enormously  increased  ere 
long.     For  a  hundred  years  we  have  found  lands,  and  made 
room,  for  the  overflowing  populations  of  Europe.     All   immi- 
gration should  now  be  stopped :  and  we  should  keep  "a  place 
in  the  sun"  for  the   next  generation  of  Americans,   and  not 
trive    away    all    vacant    room    to    strangers,    vast    numbers    of 
whom   remain   aliens,  and  cannot  be  assimilated,  and  do  not 
wish  to  be.     Half  a  million  dollars  in  gold,  scattered  among 
preachers  and  professors,  will  keep  America  in  a  defenseless 
conditon.     Now   that  women  have  entered   into  public  affairs 
it   will  only  be  necessary  to  claim  that  such-and-such  a  policy 
will    "keep   the  country   out   of  war,"   and   they   will   eagerly 
support  any   treasonable   scheme   that    is   hatched   out    in    the 
secret  cabinets  of  London  and  Tokio.     The  blood  of  hundreds 


356  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

of  thousands  of  American  youth  may  be  vainly  poured  out 
on  fields  of  defeat,  to  atone  for  this  national  folly  and  disgrace. 
With  Woman  "in  the  saddle"  and  the  preachers  close  behind 
her,  and  a  rich  and  powerful  British-Japanese  lobby  at  work 
in  Washington  City,  we  shall  see  many  strange  things  in  the 
near  future.  The  so-called  "women's  clubs"  of  the  United 
States  have  endorsed  the  secession  movement  in  the  Philip- 
pines. If  women  had  been  voters  in  1861,  the  Confederate 
States  of  America  would  have  been  in  existence  to-day.  Now 
that  degenerated  Americans  have  bowed  their  necks  to  the 
female  yoke,  we  may  expect  only  national  humiliation  and  dis- 
aster. Our  country  will  lose  its  proud  position  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world,  and  go  dawdling  on  to  ruin.  Only  a  social 
and  political  catacylsm  can  bring  salvation. 

The  time  has  come  to  dispense  with  the  ruinous  senti- 
mentality that,  it  is  the  business  of  the  American  people  to 
find  homes,  lands  and  employment  for  the  overflowing  popu- 
lations of  the  whole  earth.  Our  duty  is  to  think  of  ourselves, 
and  of  the  welfare,  freedom  and  independence  of  those  who 
will  come  after  us. 

Threats  and  busy  preparations  for  "world  conquest"  cannot 
be  dismissed  with  a  "pooh!  pooh!  that's  only  talk."  We  have 
the  bloody  lesson  of  Europe  before  us.  All  schemes  for  world- 
government,  with  headquarters  in  Europe,  should  arouse 
American  abhorrence.  Any  attempt  to  make  America  a  de- 
pendency of  Europe  will,  in  the  end,  meet  with  armed 
resistance. 


SITTING  BULL 

Sitting  Bull  began  his  warlike  career  at  the  age  of  14, 
killing  and  scalping  an  enemy.  He  thus  became  a  warrior, 
receiving  the  name  of  Tatanka  Yotanka,  which  means  "Sitting 
Bull."  His  father  was  a  leading  chief  of  the  Sioux  nation, 
and  one  of  his  uncles  also  was. 

Up  to  1825  the  Sioux  held  an  immense  territory  stretching 
from  east  of  the  Mississippi  almost  to  the  Rocky  Mountains. 
It  included  half  of  Minnesota,  two-thirds  of  North  and  South 
Dakota,  and  portions  of  Wisconsin,  Iowa,  Missouri  and  Wy- 
oming. In  1837  a  treaty  was  made,  by  the  terms  of  which 
che  Sioux  gave  Up  all  lands  east  of  the  Mississippi.  That 
year  Sitting  Bull  was  born.  In  1851  the  Sioux  sold  the  greater 
part  of  Minnesota  to  the  United  States.  The  Indians  gave  up 
their  lands,  white  -settlers  poured  in,  but  the  government 
kept  none  of  its  treaty  promises,  and  paid  no  attention  to 
the  complaints  of  the  Indians.  This  resulted  in  the  massacre 
at  Spirit  Lake  in  1857,  in  which  Sitting  Bull  took  part,  as 
a  sub-chief,  being  then  twenty  years  of  age.  Four  years 
later  the  Civil  War  broke  out,  and  he  became  an  active  and 
incessant  enemy  of  the  government  for  years,  usually  operat- 


PROSF.    ADDENDA  357 

iim  on  the  Plains  in  conjunction  with  Red  Cloud  and  other 
famous  chieftains.  In  is»;2  the  Sioux  broke  into  Mini - 
slaughtered  more  than  a  thousand  settlers,  and  ravaged  the 
country  far  and  wide.  Gen.  Sibley  defeated  them,  hanged 
thirty-nine  chiefs  on  one  scaffold,  sent  several  hundred  war- 
riors to  prison,  and  drove  the  rest  of  the  tribe  far  westward. 
In  ixt>6,  Col.  Fetterman's  command  of  a  hundred  men  was 
massacred  near  Fort  Kearney.  Nebraska.  In  1868,  gold  hav- 
ing been  discovered  in  the  Black  Hills,  another  treaty  was 
made,  but  the  government  violated  its  provisions  and  paid  no 
attention  to  complaints.  On  June  25th,  1876,  occurred  the 
(Mister  massacre.  Sitting  Bull  then  retreated  to  Canada  with 
i'.i'iiti  warriors,  but  after  a  long  sojourn  in  the  north  returned 
under  an  amnesty  promise.  He  was  soon  imprisoned,  was  kept 
under  close  guard  for  two  years  and  was  then  released.  The 
whites  had  killed  off  the  last  buffalo  in  the  country,  and 
occupied  the  best  lands.  The  Indians  were  hungry.  The 
government  had  made  another  treaty  with  them,  but  all 
the  terms  were  violated.  Trouble  was  brewing.  The  Messiah 
craze  broke  out.  After  the  fashion  of  white  men  the  Indians 
looked  for  a  Messiah  to  cure  their  many  troubles,  but  looked 
tor  one  of  their  own  race.  Ghost  dancing  commenced.  It 
was  thought  that  Sitting  Bull  might  have  something  to  do 
with  the  prevalent  excitement,  and  his  arrest  was  ordered. 
On  December  15th,  1890,  at  his  camp  on  Grand  River,  an  at- 
tempt was  made  to  take  him  into  custody,  and  a  bloody 
fight  occurred.  He  and  his  son  and  many  leading  retainers 
were  killed;  also  some  soldiers,  and  ten  Indian  policemen 
who  tried  to  carry  out  the  order.  Two  weeks  later  took  place 
what  has  been  called  "the  battle  of  Wounded  Knee."  It  was 
a  miserable  affair  throughout,  and  was  only  a  massacre.  With 
a  wintry  blizzard  impending,  a  lot  of  wandering,  hungry  and 
bewildered  Indians  from  Sitting  Bull's  late  camp,  commanded 
by  a  chief  who  was  too  sick  to  ride  a  horse,  stopped  to  make 
a  shelter  for  themselves.  Then  a  company  of  soldiers  without 
definite  orders,  intentions  or  instructions,  went  into  cam]) 
near  by.  Neither  side  had  planned  to  attack  the  other,  but 
fcach  feared  the  other,  and  dreaded  foul  play.  The  next 
morning  an  officer  ordered  the  soldiers  to  disarm  the  Indians. 
Prompt  resistance  was  offered,  upon  which  machine  guns 
were  turned  loose  on  the  Indian  camp,  and  firing  was  con- 
tinued as  long  as  a  live  Indian  could  be  seen.  About  250 
warriors  perished,  and  out  of  200  women  and  children,  50 
fell  dead.  It  is  a  tradition  of  the  plains  that  an  officer 
plainly  commanded  the  soldiers  not  to  spare  the  women  and 
children.  Gen.  Miles,  who  possessed  the  complete  confidence 
of  the  Indians,  soon  arrived  at  the  scene,  and  prevented  graver 
troubles.  Then  the  government  of  this  "Christian  nation" 
made  another  treaty,  and  tried  to  carry  out  its  provisions. 
Young-Man-Afraid-Of  His-Horses  said  this  to  Gen.  Mi- 

"There  was  no  need  of  the  war.  The  Indians  are  brave, 
and  the  white  man  is  brave,  but  the  white  man  do*-*  not  do 
as  he  savs." 


358  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Stupidity  in  great  affairs  should  be  considered  a  crime. 
What  disaster,  de^th,  it  entails  on  other  men.  What  multi- 
tudes of  gallant  fighters— white  and  red — perished  on  the 
Plains,  that  criminal  stupidity  and  gross  dishonesty  might 
reign  at  Washington.  What  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  settlers 
perished — men,  women  and  children.  I  might  almost  say — 
what  thousands!  It  was  in  the  era  of  the  "post  trader" 
scandals,  and  other  inodorous  military  and  frontier  abuses. 
The  money  intended  for  the  feeding  of  the  Indians  may  have 
been  stolen.  It  probably  was. 

Sitting  Bull  was  53  years  of  age  when  he  died.  In  the 
Custer  fight  he  led  a  greater  force  than  Tecumseh  ever  had. 

The  Wounded  Knee  tragedy  recalls  the  famous  words  of 
Logan,  chief  of  the  Mingoes.  Logan  said.  "There  flows  not 
a  drop  of  my  blood  in  the  viens  of  any  living  creature.  Last 
spring,  in  cold  blood  and  unprovoked,  Colonel  Cresap  mur- 
dered all  the  relatives  of  Logan,  not  sparing  his  women  and 
children.  This  called  on  me  for  vengeance.  I  have  had  it. 
I  have  killed  many.  I  have  fully  glutted  my  rage.  Who  is 
there  to  mourn  for  Logan?  Not  one!" 

The  timely  arrival  of  Gen.  Miles  and  Young-Man-Afraid- 
Of-His-Horses,  probably  averted  another  great  and  bloody 
Sioux  war. 

The  second  time  I  volunteered  for  service  in  the  Union 
army,  I  was  detained  some  days  at  Camp  McClellan,  Iowa, 
and  one  of  my  duties  was  to  serve  as  sentry  over  the  Sioux 
warriors  captured  in  Minnesota  by  Gen.  Sibley.  They  were 
in  prison  barracks  under  vigilant  guard.  Twice  I  served  as 
sentinel  over  them. 

People  who  paid  little  attention  to  frontier  affairs,  have 
vague  ideas  concerning  Ouster's  last  battle.  With  only  300 
men  he  crossed  the  Little  Big  Horn,  and  rode  into  the  midst 
of  six  thousand  well  armed  warriors.  Sitting  Bull  and  Crazy 
Horse  had  mustered  every  hostile  band  in  Dakota,  Montana 
and  Wyoming.  Even  the  Pawnees — hereditary  foes  of  the 
Sioux — contributed  1500  warriors  for  a  final  struggle  with 
the  white  man.  Innumerable  chiefs  of  fame  led  their  warlike 
bands.  Spotted  Tail,  American  Horse,  Porcupine,  Crow  King, 
Big  Foot,  Tohani,  Short  Bull,  Kicking  Bear,  Gall,  Young-Man- 
Afraid-Of-His-Horses,  Waneta,  Wapasha,  Little  Crow,  Wamdi- 
tanka,  Rain-In-The-Face,  and  many  others  of  note  assembled. 
Custer  expected  only  the  Pawnee  contingent.  His  force  was 
quickly  surrounded,  and  nothing  but  battle  and  death  re- 
mained. About  60  Indians  were  killed,  and  all  of  the  soldiers. 
Rain-In-The-Face  killed  Custer,  firing  a  rifle  at  close  quarters. 
"Were  any  of  the  soldiers  burnt  or  tortured?"  was  the  inquiry 
afterwards.  The  invariable  answer  of  Sioux  braves  was  that 
"no  prisoners  were  taken."  This  is  undoubtedly  true,  for 
every  soldier  fought  to  the  last,  and  many  of  the  wounded 
shot  themselves.  The  dead  soldiers  were  scalped  and  muti- 
lated. In  the  case  of  Custer,  his  body  was  stripped,  but  was 
stretched  out  unscalped  and  unmutilated.  He  died  sabre  in 
hand,  and  was  left  where  he  fell. 


PROSE    ADDENDA  359 

\VluMi  the  World  War  came  the  government  decided  that, 
although  the  Indian  was  not  necessarily  a  citizen,  nor  quite 
so  gcod  as  a  \vhit<-  man.  lit1  was  good  enough  to  go  to  Europe 
to  fight,  and  so  the  "selective  draft"  was  applied  to  him. 
To  the  CM  dit  «l'  his  pace  -a  proud  and  warlike  one— be  it  said 
i hat  not  an  Indian  slacker  was  found  in  the  land.  We  had 
a!  out  2"iMitHi  white  sneaks,  evaders,  deserters,  and  conscien- 
tious objectors-to-being-hurt,  but  not  an  Indian  tried  to  evade 
his  duty.  Every  one  on  the  list  reported  promptly,  and  those 
sent  to  France  made  the  best  of  records  and  many  of  them 
won  military  decorations.  From  ten  to  fifteen  thousand  In- 
dians served  with  honor  in  Europe.  (The  exact  number  is  on 
official  record.)  Half  the  wars  of  the  world  could  be  avoided 
]>y  the  employment  of  one  antidote — Justice,  but  Historian 
Gibbon  says  Justice  is  "only  a  theory." 

On  May  20,  1921,  at  Cannonball,  North  Dakota,  occurred 
the  burial  of  Albert  Grass,  aged  21,  last  chief  of  the  Dakota 
Sioux  Indians.  Several  thousand  Indians  attended.  He  was 
killed  on  the  firing  line  in  France  in  1918,  and  his  body  was 
returned  by  the  government.  On  the  evening  of  May  19th 
began  the  ancient  rites  and  ceremonies  accorded  to  a  dead 
chief,  which  continued  all  night,  mainly  consisting  of  chant- 
ing and  dancing.  Then  followed  a  religious  ceremony  at 
the  local  Catholic  church.  The  body  was  then  buried  with 
military  honors  by  the  American  Legion.  The  grave  is  on 
Holy  Hill,  a  spot  sacred  to  the  Indians,  for  it  was  there  that 
was  held  the  last  great  Sun  Dance  of  the  Sioux  nation. 


TIIK  (IRK AT  IJTDDLK 

The  gods  are  creations  of  the  poets. — Cicero. 

All  revelation  is  pure  fiction. — XoiopJiancfi. 

Future  life  is  a  myth.  The  only  immortality  is  to  live  in 
history. — X<ii><>l<  -<>n. 

Not  for  our  protection,  but  for  their  own  vengeance,  is  the 
providence  of  the  gods  over  us. — Tacit nx. 

Nothing  can  be  known,  nothing  can  be  learned.  Nothing  can 
be  certain. — AiKi.ni'inrun. 

All  religions  are  false,  but  all,  perhaps,  are  useful. — Arnbinn 
sage. 

A  personal  Deity  is  inconceivable,  Immortality  unbelievable; 
Duty  is  supreme,  imperative,  unavoidable. — Gro/v/<'  El  int. 

Cyrus  the  Great  had  a  slight  belief  in  immortality,  but 
viewed  the  matter  with  grave  doubt. 

Frederick  the  Great  was  an  infidel  in  private  and  a  church- 
man in  public. 

Cambyses  flogged  and  hanged  the  priests  of  Egypt. 

Alexander  the  Great  pretended  to  be  the  son  of  Jupiter- 
Ammon,  and  Semiramis  claimed  to  be  the  daughter  of  a 


360  SON  OS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

goddess.  The  intimate  relations  known  to.  exist  between  the 
Creator  of  the  Universe  and  ex-Emperor  Wilhelm  need  only 
a  reference. 

Mind,  soul,  spirit,  are  the  same,  and  are  part  of  the  body, 
and  perish  with  it. — Epicurus. 

That  supreme  good  or  evil,  life! — Claneiiceau. 

Nature  is  merciless — knows  nothing  of  justice. — Holt. 

Justice?     It  is  only  a  theory. — Gibbon. 

The  brotherhood  of  Man  is  a  phrase,  justice  a  formula: 
the  Divine  Code  is  illegible. — Senator  J.  J.  Ingalls. 

The  mystery  of  the  cruelty  of  things. — Swinburne. 

Man    is    Nature's    great    mistake. — Underwood. 

The  mind  or  soul  is  not  immortal.  Death  is  a  relief  for  all 
human  woes,  and  beyond  it  there  is  no  place  for  sorrow  or 
joy. — Caesar. 

Those  who  have  given  rich  offerings  to  the  priests  during 
life,  go  to  the  highest  heaven. — Ye  flic  In/mn. 

When  Nature  had  made  other  animals  abject,  and  consigned 
them  to  pastures,  she  made  Man  alone  upright. — Cieero. 

It  becomes  all  men  who  desire  to  excel  other  animals,  to 
strive  to  the  utmost  of  their  power. — Sallust. 

A  deity  that  makes  a  world,  and  fills  it  with  misery  for  all 
living  creatures,  brute  and  human,  is  not  a  benevolent  god. 
If  he  is  all  powerful,  and  continues  these  miseries  for  ages, 
he  is  an  evil  being.  If  he  is  powerless  to  change  this  misery, 
he  is  not  a  god. — Hindoo  xaae. 

The  sad  wail  of  the  soul's  lament  over  the  defeat  of  human 
hopes  to  pierce  the  secret  of  the  Omniscient. — R.  W.  Frazer. 

An  ancient  edict  provided  that  if  any  base  outsider  (by 
stealth)  listened  to  the  Vedic  hymns,  his  ears  were  to  be  filled 
with  melted  tin;  if  he  was  able  to  repeat  a  sacred  hymn  his 
tongue  was  to  be  torn  out;  if  he  even  remembered  the  words 
of  a  hymn,  he  was  to  be  torn  to  pieces.  The  kind  of  piety 
that  sets  men  to  "murdering  one  another  for  the  love  of 
God!" 

If  any  deities  exist  they  bother  themselves  very  little  about 
human  affairs. — Karteliffe. 

To  be  eager  for  life,  and  to  cling  to  it,  is  a  sign  of  the 
greatest  baseness  and  weakness. — Poljfbius. 

This   is  a  Christian   nation. — Xew  political  slogan. 

Mind  does  not  exist  apart  from  matter. — Tyndall. 

Thomas  A.  Edison  has  lost  his  faith  in  immortality. — 
Biblical  World. 

Good  and  Evil  I  trace  to  the  same  source,  and  Evil  pre- 
dominates.— Gautama. 

The  deities  take  no  interest  in  human  affairs. — Plato. 

That  which  befalleth  the  sons  of  men  befalleth  beasts;  as 
the  one  dieth  so  dieth  the  other;  all  go  unto  one  place;  all  are 
of  the  dust  and  all. turn  to  dust  again. — King  Solomon. 

"Man  is  an  animal  that  wants  to  be  a  god" — which  is  much 
to  his  credit — a  tribute  to  his  gall.  What  he  thinks  about 
the  Universe  is  not  a  matter  of  consequence.  In  due  time  he 
will  be  snuffed  out,  and  his  little  world  also. 


PRO  SK    ADDENDA  361 

At  death  the  soul  has  no  more  existence  than  it  had  before 
l.irth.  Notions  of  immortality  arc  mere  delusions.  The 
idea  of  a  future  existence  is  ridiculous.  It  spoils  the  greatest 
blessing  of  Nature — death.  Absurd  to  suppose  that  the  si-eat 
head  of  all  things  pays  any  attention  to  human  affairs.-— 
Pliny. 

Not  with  philosophers  and  men  of  Science  do  we  find 
sensual  materialism,  but  in  the  palaces  of  ecclesiastical 
princes,  and  in  those  hypocrites,  who,  under  the  outward  mask 
of  pious  worship  of  God,  solely  aim  at  hierarchical  tyranny 
and  material  spoliation  of  their  fellow  men.  Theologians 
seek  only  wealth,  power,  authority,  dominion  over  the  masses. 
There  is  no  end  to  their  clamor  for  money — it  is  their  god. 
Men  of  Science  seek  only  truth,  and,  in  research,  find  intel- 
lectual enjoyment. — Brunt  flciuricli  Ildti-kd. 

The  Pontifex  Maximus  offered  the  Christian  convert  the 
alternative  of  Diana  or  Christ,  freedom  or  the  wild  beasts 
of  the  circus;  the  Bishop  of  Rome  gave  the  Protestant  a  choice 
of  transubstantiation  or  the  stake  and  fire;  the  Protestant 
successor  of  Augustine  tested  Presbyterianism  by  breaking 
the  nonconformist's  leg  in  the  iron  boot;  Presbyterianism 
drove  dissenters  to  exile.  Heretics  chained  to  the  stake,  and 
nonconformists  with  ears  nailed  to  the  pillory,  could  not  stop 
men  from  thinking. — Clirisliftn  Science  Monitor. 

Life — a  struggle  for  all,  a  defeat  for  most. — H.  J.  Laski. 

Immunity  from  suffering  is  good  enough  happiness  for 
mortals.  Man  is  a  mortal,  and  perishes — utterly! — H.  C.  P. 

Collision  with  a  wandering  planet  wTill  burn  the  Earth  to 
mist;  or,  the  Earth  will  become  a  frozen  desert  like  the  moon; 
or,  diminishing  speed  will  cause  the  Earth  to  finally  halt. 
It  will  then  drop  into  the  Sun — Science. 

In  variances  of  opinion  concerning  matters  unknown,  or 
unknowable,  men  should  strive  to  be  tolerant,  moderate, 
charitable,  indulgent  and  indifferent. — P. 

Creeds  and  fairy  stories  appear  to  be  necessary.  Women 
and  children  must  have  them.  To  furnish  them  in  abundance 
is  profitable. — 


MY   MILITARY    LAl'KKLS 

[Headquarters  Third  Brigade,  First  Division,  Seventeenth 
Army  Corps,  Vicksburg,  March  9,  1864.  | 

To  the  Governor  of  Iowa, 

Sir:  —  I  would  respectfully  recommend  to  your  favorable 
consideration,  Clinton  Parkhurst.  He  is  desirous  of  obtaining 
a  cadetship  at  West  Point.  While  a  member  of  the  Sixteenth 
Iowa  Infantry,  (a  regiment  I  had  the  honor  of  commanding 
as  Colonel  for  a  long  time)  he  was  prompt,  cheerful  and 
intelligent  in  the  performance  -of  his  duties,  either  in  camp, 


I 

362  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

on   the   ir.arch   or   in   battle.     I   hope,   if   possible,  he   may   be 
appointed,  as   I  am  certain   he  would  do  credit  to  the   State, 
his  regiment  and  the  country. 
I  am.  sir,  very  respectfully, 

Your  Obedient  Servant, 

AI.KXAXDEI;    CHAMREK.S. 
Brigadier  General  of  Volunteer* 

[Gen.    Chambers    was    a    graduate    of    West    Point,    and    a 
regular   army    officer.] 


THE  SECESSION  SNAKE  STILL  ALIVE 

Secession  plots  and  ideas  have  been  nursed  and  coddled 
so  long  in  the  Philippines,  by  Woodrow  Wilson  and  his  satel- 
lites, that  it  is  not  strange  that  talk  of  a  new  Southern 
Confederacy  is  beginning  to  be  heard  in  the  South.  At  Troy, 
in  the  State  of  Alabama,  a  marble  monument  has  been  reared 
that  bears  this  inscription: 

Erected  by  Pink  Parker 

In  Honor  of 

Wilkes   Booth 

Who  Killed   Old  Abe  Lincoln 

There  is  a  state  normal  school  at  Troy,  and  this  memorial 
has  doubtless  been  reared  as  an  educational  measure. 

When  the  State  of  Virginia  put  a  statue  of  Lee  under 
the  dome  of  the  national  Capitol,  we  thought  we  could  stand 
that.  When  Virginia  gave  to  one  of  our  greatest  war  vessels 
a  costly  silver  service,  every  piece  of  which  was  stamped 
with  a  scowling  image  of  Jeff  Davis— nothing  very  loud  was 
said.  When,  however,  they  begin  to  build  marble  monuments 
down  South  in  honor  of  the  man  "who  killed  old  Abe  Lincoln," 
our  southern  brethren  are  rubbing  it  in  a  little  too  hard. 
Ere  long  their  political  orators  will  begin  to  complain  of 
"sectional  feeling  in  the  North,"  (as  indicated  by  election 
returns),  and  in  the  East,  and  in  the  Great  West,  and  in  the 
Great  Northwest, — and  everywhere  else  in  the  country  except- 
ing in  the  somewhat  circumscribed  area  of  the  late  unlamented 
Confederate  States  Of  America.  The  Trojans  of  Alabama 
should  "wave  the  bloody  shirt"  again,  and  put  up  a  marble 
monument  in  honor  of  Henry  Wirz,  the  martyred  hero  of 
Anderscnville. 

Congress  has  a  duty  to  perform.  Not  to  pull  down  the 
dirty  monument  in  Alabama.  Let  it  stand  as  long  as  it  will. 
Congress  should  place  under  the  dome  of  the  national  Capitol 
three  statues  in  honor  of  great  Virginians  who  hated 
secession:  General  Winfield  Scott,  General  George  H.  Thomas, 
and  General  Sam  Houston.  Houston  fought  under  Andrew 


PROSE  ADDENDA  353 

ft  er  wards  he  added  Texas  to  the  Union;  and  to  his, 

•  (1  and  hated  secession — or,  as  Mr.  Wilson 

It,  "self  determination."  Wilson  is  not  a  Virginian — he's 

At    least,    I    consider    him    such.      Let    us    have 

three  atues  under  the  dome  of  the  national  Capitol — 

not  on--  of  them  in  honor  of  Secession. 

After  the  butcheries  of  Goliad  and  the  Alamo,  the  fate  of 
Texan  independence  was  decided  at  the  battle  of  San  Jacinto, 
April  '2:.  1836.  Behind  heavy  breastworks  defended  by  ar- 
tillery. Santa  Ana  awaited  attack  with  from  2,500  to  :*,,("»> 
Mexicans.  Gen.  Houston  stormed  the  Mexican  works  with  a 
force  .  :  750  Texans.  Houston  was  dangerously  wounded; 
9  of  his  men  were  killed  and  16  were  wounded.  The  Mexicans 
•n  killed  and  wounded,  and  730  more  were  captured, 
Santa  Ana  included.  Out  of  this  brilliant  victory  sprung  the 
Texan  Republic.  On  July  26,  1863 — neglected,  very  poor; 
in  spirits  at  the  apparent  disruption  of  the  American 
Union,  and  suffering  from  wounds  received  in  two  wars,  Gen. 
Houston  died  on  his  little  farm  near  Galveston  Bay,  Texas,  at 
the  age  of  71.  His  name  deserves  to  be  held  in  perpetual 
honor — if  that  is  any  comfort  to  heroes  gone.  Let  us  place 
a  statue  of  him  under  the  dome  of  the  national  Capitol. 


HOW  TIIK  AVATKU  CAMK  IXAVX  AT 
LODOR-E 

"You'll  never  miss  the  water  till  the  well  runs  dry." 

Of  innumerable  cases,   consider  these — simply  as  samples: 

During  the  World  War  spruce  timber  operations  on  the 
northwest  Pacific  coast  consumed  hundreds  of  millions  of 
dollars,  and  the  government  obtained  no  benefit  whatever.  The 
money  was  simply  tossed  away  to  robbers. 

Fifteen  hundred  million  dollars  were  squandered  on  sec- 
tional "cantonments'  'in  the  southern  states,  after  which 
the  buildings  were  burnt,  torn  down  or  given  away. 

Fraudulent  coal  Contracts,  two  years  after  the  war  ended, 
robbed  the  government  of  from  twenty  to  thirty  million 
doll;1 

Two  million  and  nine  hundred  thousand  dollars  went  for 
electrical  machinery  and  electrical  lines  that  were  never  used 
an  hour,  and  which  were  sold  to  "interested  parties"  for 

i 

The  sum  of  $116,000,00(1  was  paid  for  poison  gas  that  was 
:•  made. 

The  colossal  airplane  robbery,  an  affair  almost  incredible, 
cost  two  billions  of  dollars,  and  made  two  thousand  million- 
aires. 
•     Three    nitrate    plants    that    cost    $120,000,000    never    made 


364  SONGS    OF    A    MAX    WHO    FAILED 

a  pound  of  nitrates,  and  the  plants  were  sold  for  practically 
nothing. 

Old  Hickory  powder  plant  at  Nashville,  Tennessee,  cost 
ninety  million  dollars  ,and  never  made  a  pound  of  powder. 
Sold  for  three  and  a  half  million  dollars.  The  Japs  may 
well  call  Uncle  Sam  "a  fatuous  booby  with  plenty  of  money 
and  no  brains."  He  is  worse  than  that — he  helps  people 
rob  him. 

A  powder  plant  at  Nitro,  West  Virginia,  that  cost  sixty 
million  dollars,  never  made  a  pound  of  powder,  and  was  "sold" 
for  $800,000.  Included  in  the  "sale"  (without  charge)  was 
certain  "personal  property"  that  experts  valued  at  ten 
million  dollars. 

On  "port  terminals"  that  were  never  used,  located  "down 
South,"  the  sum  of  $127,000,000  was  spent. 

The  totally  fictitious  "ordnance  program"  cost  Four  Billion's 
Of  Dollars,  and  produced  nothing  but  a  brigade  of  million- 
aires. 

All  this  is  eloquent  of  crime,  misrule  and  political  ruin. 
Never  in  human  history  is  found  another  such  picture  of 
criminal  waste. 

Motor  trucks  that  cost  millions  of  dollars,  were  left  to  rust 
and  rot,  along  the  Mexican  boundary  line. 

Vast  warlike  stores  at  Vladivostok  were  sold  to  Japan  for 
a  song,  "to  save  expense  of  removal  to  Manila,"  and  at  a  time 
when  Japan  was  threatening  us  with  war. 

In  January  last  it  became  known  that  $40,000,000  of  "relief 
money"  had  been  used  in  waging  unauthorized  war  against 
Russia,  and  that  unknown  large  sums  of  Red  Cross  money 
had  been  used  in  the  same  way. 

In  February,  Secretary  Houston  admitted  to  Congress  that, 
by  Wilson's  order,  he  had  "loaned"  the  Slovakian  "govern- 
ment" $14,330,000. 

To  keep  Slovakia  out  of  war,  Wilson  had  previously  shipped 
munitions  valued  at  $13,500,000.  The  allies  intercepted  the 
shipment,  and,  without  payment,  kept  the  munitions.  No 
wonder  the  Europeans  call  us  "a  nation  of  chumps,"  and  call 
our  country  "the  world's  Christmas  tree."  In  addition,  an- 
other mushroom  government  obtained  enormous  stores  of 
munitions  and  rations,  and  was  allowed  to  "pay"  for  the  same 
with  $50,000,000  in  "money"  not  worth'  the  paper  it  was 
printed  on.  Thus  did  Mr.  Wilson  play  "Lord  Bountiful"  and 
"Big  Brother  to  the  World"— not  with  his  own  cash,  but  with 
treasure  that  future  generations  will  have  to  sweat  and  toil 
for.  On  February  27th  Secretary  Houston  confessed  to  a 
congressional  committee  that  he  and  Mr.  Wilson  had  "loaned" 
$200,000,000  to  the  Kerensky  government  of  Russia,  a  govern- 
ment now  defunct.  As  they  had  no  authority  to  take  Two 
Hundred  Million  Dollars  from  the  United  States  Treasury, 
and  give  it  away,  they  should  be  held  accountable,  person- 
ally, and  in  their  private  fortunes. 

An  expert  estimates  that  certain  persons,  vaguely  referred 


PRO  SF.    A  I)  I)  KM)  A  365 

The   ship-builders,"   defrauded    the   government    out    of 
••and    possil.ly    more." 

XeroV    burning   of   Rome    never   cost   ten    thousand    million 
dollars — the  amount  of  indebtedness  France  has  been  asking 
•cancel,"    kindly    aided    in    the   matter    by    many    home 
"statesmen." 

As  a  parting  shot  from  the  Grand  Autocracy,  in  May,  1921, 
Congress  learned  that  a  trifling  bill  of  Four  Hundred  Million 
Dollars  would  have  to  be  paid — some  of  Woodrow's  unauthor- 
ized  outlays   entitled   "emergency  expenditures.".    What   they 
it   was  considered  not  worth  while  to  find  out. 

A   letter   written    at    Paris   at   the  close   of  the   World   War 
an  incomplete  reference  to  affairs  abroad.     The  writer 
says: 

•  tinding  revelations  of  graft  and  fraud,  mounting  into 
millions,  in  the  supplies  shipped  to  the  American  expeditionary 
force  during  the  war,  have  just  been  made.  At  one  depot 
there  was  a  full  mile  of  piled-up  cases  marked  "bottles  of  ink," 
or  "canned  food."  Only  the  top  layer  of  each  box  consisted 
of  full  boxes  or  cans;  the  rest  were  empty.  Hundreds  of 
thousands  of  pairs  of  "woolen"  underclothes  were  of  the  poor- 
est quality  of  cotton,  while  a  vast,  number  of  cases  marked 
as  containing  clothing,  were  either  empty,  or  were  filled  with 
a  jumble  of  all  kinds  of  useless  material  in  a  moldy  condition. 
At  another  depot  there  were  five  miles  of  "military  supplies" 
that  not  only  included  beds,  munitions,  jams  and  gasoline,  but 
also  more  than  fifty  thousand  cases  of  baby  underwear,  baby 
socks  and  baby  bonnets.  At  still  another  depot  45,000  new 
automobiles  were  destroyed  by  fire,  to  make  room  for  other 
automobiles  that  were  -then  en  route  across  the  ocean — 
although  the  war  was  over.  The  depot  at  Gievres,  which 
covers  a  space  of  more  than  one-third  the  area  of  Paris,  is 
packed  and  piled  with  heterogeneous  supplies  of  every  sort, 
that  are  rusting  and  spoiling." 

An  immense  quantity  of  military  foods  and  rations,  that 
cost  seventeen  hundred  million  dollars,  was  sold  to  the  French 
government  (on  credit)  for  one  hundred  and  fifty  million 
dollars.  This  food  was  then  shipped  to  the  United  States  and 
sold  at  a  profit  of  more  than  a  billion  dollars  above  purclrts  • 
price.  Camjt'  Funston,  Kansas,  cost  more  than  $15,000,000. 
In  December,  1920,  Baker  (Sec.  of  War)  ordered  the  post 
dismantled  and  abandoned,  -the  buildings  torn  down  and  all 
materials  hastily  sold  for  "what  they  would  bring."-  In  the 
same  week  he  asked  Congress  for  $50,000,000  with  which 
to  merely  begin  carrying  out  his  policy  of  "housing"  the  home- 
S.  Army.  Experts  who  looked  over  his  elaborate  plans 
declared  to  a  congressional  committee  that,  to  carry  out  the 
plans,  would  cost  $800,000,000.  The  Inspector-General  of  the 
Army  officially  reported  that  while  one  department  of  the 
government  was  selling  '•surplus  cement"  to  a  civilian  for  SI. 
per  ton.  another  department  of  the  government  was  buying 
it  back  at  $6.00  per  ton.  The  cement  was  not  moved — only 


366  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

the  money  changed  hands.  The  General's  report  failed  to 
stop  the  traffic.  The  reign  of  Boss  Tweed  and  his  sattelites  at 
New  York  City,  after  the  Civil  War,  was  mild  and  moderate 
compared  to  the  fierce  saturnalia  at  Washington  City. 

Louis  XIV,  "the  Grand  Monarch,"  squandered  public  money 
by  millions.  Louis  XVI  went  to  the  guillotine  for  it.  Under 
the  Autocratic  regime  of  our  "free  republic"  money  has  been 
squandered  and  stolen  by  billions — not  money  immediately 
raised  by  taxation,  but  borrowed  at  liberal  interest,  with  re- 
payment left  to  generations  unborn.  Let  us  hope  the  crimes 
of  the  present  era  will  not  be  followed  by  scaffolds  and 
executions  in  the  future.  "I  will  repay,  saith,  the  Lord." 

While  "that  stricken  man,"  that  "wheel  chair  invalid"  was 
hidden  away  in  the  innermost  recesses  of  the  White  House, 
invisible  and  inaccessible  to  the  vulgar  gaze — not  even  to  the 
highest  senators — and  was  ostensibly  under  the  watchful  care 
of  a  Rear  Admiral  surgeon  of  the  Navy,  he  seems  to  have 
been  pretty  busy — to  say  the  least. 

John  Churchill,  victor  at  Blenheim,  first  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough,  was  famous  for  good  humor.  News  of  mishaps, 
blunders  of  subordinates,  ill  fortune,  disarrangement  of  plans, 
sudden  energy  of  the  foe — only  brought  his  patient  smile. 
Nothing  disturbed  his  serenity.  Like  Caesar,  he  had  the  genius 
of  good  nature.  Let  us  try  to  imitate  him,  for  it  is  hard  for 
the  American  citizen  to  read  his  daily  paper  and  be  anything 
but  a  grouch.  Wake  up.  '"Assume  a  virtue  if  you  have 
it  not."  Let  us  be  "cheerful  idiots." 


THE  CONFEDERACY  AND  THE  INDIANS 

Up  to  the  breaking  out  of  the  Civil  War,  the  only  Indian 
policy  the  United  States  had  was  based  on  three  maxims: 
"Might  is  right,"  a  treaty  with  Indians  is  "only  a  scrap  of 
paper,"  and  "the  only  good  Indian  is  a  dead  one."  These 
maxims,  never  officially  promulgated,  were  steadily  acted  on- 
put  in  actual  practice.  The  culmination  was  in  some  kind 
of  a  massacre.  Sometimes  whites  were  massacred  and  some- 
times Indians.  A  massacre  was  always  provided  for.  It 
was  part  of  the  Indian  policy  of  "our  Christian  nation."  Early 
in  the  history  of  Illinois  or  Indiana,  there  was  a  massacre 
of  peaceful  Indians,  by  whites.  In  due  time  the  massacre  of 
the  soldiers  of  Fort  Dearborn  (now  Chicago)  came  to  pass. 
Without  books  of  reference  at  hand  I  would  not  try  to  give 
a  list  of  such  occurrences.  The  only  shadow  of  excuse  we 
can  offer  for  lack  of  faith  in  dealing  with  the  red  man, 
is  in  the  irrepressible  and  unavoidable  conflict  of  civilization 
and  savagery.  The  Indian  is  too  polite  or  too  unsophisticated 
to  say  that  the  pale  face  is  a  liar,  but  phrases  it  more  gently, 
and  complains  that  "the  white  man  does  not  do  as  he  says." 


PRO  Si:    A  I)  DEN  H  A  367 

King  I);ivid  said  in  his  wrath,  "All  men  are  liars."  The 
average  Indian  got  to  believe  that  all  white  men  were,  any- 
how. The  I'.Iack  Hawk  war  came  to  pass  because  the  govern- 
ment invited  many  leading  chiefs  to  a  conference;  plied  them 
with  liquor,  pleased  them  with  baubles,  and  when  they  were 
half  drunk — or  drunk  entirely — persuaded  them  to  barter 
away  an  empire  of  the  richest  agricultural  lands  in  the  world, 
for  simply  nothing.  Black  Hawk  rebelled  at  such  a  trans- 
action. At  the  age  of  20  he  had  been  a  famous  war  chief, 
afterward  1<  d  ."00  warriors  to  join  Tecumseh.  At  the  age  of 
60,  with  a  small  following,  he  precipitated  a  hopeless  but  a 
dangerous  war.  Xo  man — black,  white  or  red,  can  be  blamed 
for  fighting  to  hold  the  soil  he  was  born  on.  He  has  my 
sympathy  at  least.  My  mother  often  saw  Black  Hawk,  and  it 
was  to  please  her  that  I  once  wrote  and  published  a  military 
novel  based  on  his  last,  and  desperate  campaign. 

When  the  Civil  War  had  opened  in  earnest  the  Sioux 
nation  had  bitter  grievances  against  the  government  by  reason 
of  violated  treaties — grossly  violated  ones.  When  the  Sioux 
invasion  of  Minnesota  occurred  in  1862,  it  was  generally 
believed  that  the  Confederate  government  had  instigated 
the  bloody  attack,  but  there  was  no  direct  proof  of  this. 
There  was  nothing  strange  in  the  supposition.  In  colonial 
times  the  French  incited  Indians  to  attack  English  settle- 
ments, and  aided  them  with  arms,  ammunition  and  even 
with  military  forces.  (Civilized  man  is  still  a  savage  lightly 
vaneered  over).  In  the  Revolutionary  War,  England  aided 
and  encouraged  Indians  to  assail  the  continental  frontiers, 
and  repeated  the  policy  in  the  war  of  1812.  So  it  wTas  nothing- 
new  or  strange  to  suppose  that  the  Confederacy  was  using  a 
similar  policy.  Concerning  the  issues  of  the  Civil  War  a 
great  division  of  sentiment  prevailed  among  the  Indians. 
Some  tribes  proved  loyal  to  the  government.  Other  tribes  took 
sides  with  the  Confederacy.  In  the  northern  Mississippi 
campaign  I  saw  a  Union  regiment  that  was  almost  entirely 
composed  of  Wisconsin  Indians,  dressed  and  trained  like 
ourselves.  The  Indians  of  western  Arkansas  took  up  arms 
for  the  South,  as  did  a  very  large  part  of  the  Indians  in  what 
is  now  Oklahoma.  At  Hominy  Creek,  Oklahoma,  a  battle  of 
much  importance  was  fought  between  rival  forces  of  Indians, 
one  side  fighting  for  the  government  and  the  other  for  the 
South.  Each  side  arrayed  over  a  thousand  warriors,  and  I 
don't  think  there  was  a  white  man  there.  The  contest  was 
bloody  and  indecisive,  but  proved  decisive  in  one  way.  Xo 
further  attempt  was  made  by  southern  Indians  to  reach  the 
border  line  of  Kansas.  Along  that  border  stretched  the 
villages  of  the  Osages,  (a  branch  of  the  Sioux  nation).  Osage 
tribal  affairs  have  been  conducted  with  singular  wisdom,  for 
a  hundred  years  at  least,  and  the  Osages  are  now  the  richest 
class  of  people  in  Oklahoma.  Their  pockets  are  stuffed  with 
money  arising  from  annuities  from  the  sale  of  lands  to  the 
government;  by  royalties  from  oil  wells,  and  by  rentals  of 


368  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

lands  to  whites,  the  lands  being  mainly  held  by  the  tribe  in 
community  fashion.    They  own  a  whole  rich  county  there. 

At  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War  the  Osages  promptly 
declared  for  the  government,  and  kept  close  watch  and  ward 
along  the  Kansas  border,  and  also  held  at  bay  the  numerous 
hostiles  that  swarmed  over  the  Plains.  Some  time  in  the 
early  part  of  the  war  occurred  a  remarkable  incident  that 
may  be  on  official  record.  At  a  point  on  the  prairies  some- 
where between  the  present  towns  of  Chetopa  and  Cherryvale, 
an  Osage  scouting  party  led  by  a  chief,  intercepted  a  party 
of  white  men,  twenty  or  thirty  in  number,  well  armed  and 
well  mounted.  An  explanation  was  required  of  the  strangers, 
but  none  was  given.  The  chief  then  requested  the  whites 
to  accompany  him  to  Humboldt,  where  they  could  make  their 
explanations  to  the  white  military  commandant.  This  was 
refused  and  the  white  leader  started  to  ride  on,  but  the  chief 
wheeled  his  horse  in  front  of  the  column  to  bar  further 
progress.  The  white  leader  shot  the  chief  dead;  the  other 
Indians  scattered  and  disappeared  at  a  gallop,  and  the  white 
men  rode  on  westward.  In  about  an  hour  a  volley  of  rifle 
balls  emptied  many  saddles,  and  a  strong  force  of  Indians 
was  found  to  be  in  hot  pursuit.  The  white  men  hastily  threw 
away  their  baggage,  and  broke  into  a  wild  gallop  for  the  heavy 
timber  that  skirted  the  Verdigree  river  a  few  miles  away. 
There  the  Osages  hemmed  them  in,  killed  the  last  one  of 
them,  stripped  their  bodies,  and  scalped  and  beheaded  them. 
In  searching  their  clothing  many  strange  looking  official 
papers  were  found,  which  the  Indians,  of  course,  could  not 
read  or  understand.  Big  Hill  Joe,  the  chief,  took  careful 
charge  of  these,  and  merely  sent  off  a  scout  to  Humboldt  with 
intelligence  that  a  lot  of  bad  white  men  had  been  killed. 
A  company  of  cavalry  was  immediately  sent  to  invest  teatr. 
Its  commander  called  for  any  papers  that  might  have  been 
found,  and  Joe  handed  him  the  papers,  which  disclosed  Ihese 
facts:  The  party  consisted  of  a  Confederate  colonel,  five  or 
six  Confederate  officers,  and  an  escort  of  soldiers.  The  party 
had  started  from  Little  Rock,  Arkansas,  and  was  bound  for 
the  western  plains  bearing  official  credentials  to  Red  Cloud, 
Sitting  Bull,  and  other  leading  hostile  chiefs,  and  promise  of 
arms,  munitions,  money  and  supplies  for  a  war  along  the 
entire  northern  frontier.  The  captured  arms  and  horses  went 
to  the  Osages  as  spoils  of  war;  the  mutilated  heads  and  bodies 
were  gathered  up  and  buried;  the  papers,  documents  and 
credentials  reached  the  commandant  at  Humboldt,  and  un- 
doubtedly went  to  Washington  City.  An  attempt  was  made 
by  Texan  troops  to  pass  through  New  Mexico,  capture  Denver, 
and  form  a  junction  with  the  warlike  hostiles  on  the  Plains. 
Kit  Carson  and  other  frontier  leaders  of  note  raised  a  force 
of  volunteers  and  met  the  invaders  in  the  Glorietta  Mountains, 
where  a -fierce  battle  was  fought.  Neither  side  could  claim  a- 
victory,  but  the  Texans  found  it  necessary  to  abandon  their 
plan  and  hastily  retreat  homeward. 


PROSE    ADDENDA  369 

(iKNKKAL  NOTKS 

LOST    KM1MKKS 

A  civilization  world-wide  may  collapse,  disappear,  and  be 
totally  forgotten.  Any  social  or  political  organization  con- 
tains the  seeds  of  its  own  destruction.  The  decadence  of  men, 
the  degeneration  of  tribes  and  peoples;  change,  calamities, 
false  theories,  disastrous  wars  on  a  gigantic  scale,  may  bring 
the  destruction  of  nations  and  the  ruin  of  the  last  vestige  of 
civilization.  The  buried  cities  of  Central  America  admonish 
Thebes  reigned  a  thousand  years  and  is  now  a  stretch 
of  desert  sand.  The  most  probable  cause  of  ultimate  ruin  to 
civilization  lies  in  some  vast  convulsion  of  Nature.  The 
earth's  surface  is  unstable;  it  has  changed  many  times  and 
will  change  again.  After  such  a  cataclysm  the  remnant  of 
mankind,  in  consternation  and  despair,  may  revert  to  savag- 
ery, or,  even  to  mere  animal  existence.  After  a  long  age 
of  gloom,  a  commencement  will  be  made  again,  if  our  planet 
remains  inhabitable.  These  thoughts  are  based  on  Science, 
tradition,  legend,  architectural  ruins,  and  strong  probability. 
Agassiz  says:  "America  is  the  first  born  among  the  conti- 
nents. Hers  was  the  first  dry  land  lifted  out  of  the  waters." 
It  is  only  reasonable  to  believe  that  the  first  civilizations  of 
the  world  arose,  flourished  and  passed  away  in  the  American 
tropics.  In  ascribing  the  ruins  of  Central  America  to  a  race 
of  Phoenician  origin,  I  merely  adopted  the  views  of  several 
American  writers.  The  opinions  of  Agassiz  are  entitled  to 
greater  weight.  This  would  ascribe  the  early  civilizations 
of  Central  America  to  a  native  American  race,  and  make 
them  the  first  civilizations  of  Man,  flourishing  in  glory  be- 
fore the  Nile  valley  was  populated.  One  era  of  greatness 
and  subsequent  ruin  must  have  followed  another,  stretching 
far  back  through  the  corridors  of  Time.  The  present  remains 
are  of  the  latest  period,  but  ante-date  the  building  of  the 
Pyramids.  The  continent  of  Atlantis  reached  most  of  the 
way  across  from  the  West  Indies  to  northern  Africa,  and 
communication  between  the  hemispheres  must  have  been  in- 
cessant. 

THI:    MAKrir   OK   CORONA  no 

Coronado  and  his  knights  were  the  first  men  of  the  white 
race  to  set  foot  on  the  prairies  of  Kansas  and  Nebraska.  The 
expedition  of  these  intrepid  men  started  from  a  western 
port  of  Mexico,  moved  northwestward  through  Sonora,  passed 
eastward  through  the  burning  deserts  of  Arizona  and  New 
Mexico,  crossed  the  Rio  Grande  river,  met  and  defeated  a 
large  army  of  half-civilized  Indians,  discovered  the  buffalo, 
and  moving  eastward  and  northward,  reached  the  vernal  plains 
of  Kansas  and  Nebraska.  The  march  consumed  two  years,  and 
a  Pawnee  chief  visited  the  Spanish  conquestador.  Thus  was 
found  a  future  home  for  the  pusillanimous  prairie  Pacifist. 

24 


370  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

An  official  at  Washington  City  discredits  the  statement  of 
Coronado  that  he  passed  the  40th  parallel  of  latitude.  Citing 
numerous  authorities,  the  British  encyclopedia  declares  that 
Coronado  "penetrated  at  least  to  what  is  now  central  Kansas," 
and  pronounces  his  expedition  "the  most  remarkable  in  Amer- 
ican discovery."  The  encyclopedia  issued  by  the  "Scientific 
American"  says  Coronado  started  from  Culican,  on  the  Pacific 
coast  (April,  1540),  and  reached  the  plains  of  Kansas  and 
Nebraska.  Coronado  should  not  be  deprived  of  his  well 
earned  laurels  without  satisfactory  reasons.  No  such  reasons 
are  apparent.  The  Spaniards  crossed  unknown  oceans  and 
proved  the  most  skillful  of  navigators.  In  preparing  to  cross 
unknown  limitless  deserts,  Coronado  must  have  carried  good 
observation  instruments  with  him.  Hence,  when  he  says  he 
crossed  the  40th  parallel,  we  can  do  nothing  else  than  believe 
him.  This  placed  him  in  Kansas  and  Nebraska.  All  recog- 
nized authorities  concede  that  he  crossed  the  40th  Parallel, 
and  there  is  no  reason  for  disputing  the  fact,  and  no  benefit 
results  from  so  doing. 

THE  PEDAGOGUE'S  DREAM 

Of  the  American  Idiots  the  Grand  Autocracy  demanded 
250,000  sailors  and  marines  for  the  Navy;  913  million  dollars 
for  "the  greatest  war  fleet  in  the  world";  a  standing  army  in 
time  of  peace  of  576,000  soldiers;  a  draft  Act  to  include  every 
able-bodied  young  man  in  the  country  of  the  age  of  18;  a 
second  Act  "for  war  time"  that  would  draft  every  able-bodied 
man  in  the  country  between  the  ages  of  18  and  45.  These 
Acts,  it  was  computed,  would  mobilize  an  American  army  of 
more  than  Twenty  Million  Men.  Strange  preparations  for 
universal  peace!  With  the  League  of  Nations  behind  it,  such 
an  armament  would  have  meant  the  mastery  of  the  world. 

The  bait — Wilson,  master  of  the  world. 

The  purpose — to  unload  the  bonded  debts  of  the  world  on 
the  backs  of  the  American  Idiots,  and,  to  make  this  country 
a  vassal  dependency  of  Europe. 

Could  greed  or  selfish,  silly  vanity  be  greater?  Brain 
storms!  Senile  dementia!  "What  fools  these  mortals  be." 

MAXIMILIAN    AND    CARLOTTA 

The  passage  in  this  volume  under  the  above  heading  is 
from  "Sun  Worship  Shores,"  lost  in  San  Francisco's  burning. 
In  1874,  at  Acapulco,  Mexico,  I  saw  cannons  lying  in  the 
ditches  of  a  fort,  where  they  had  been  thrown  by  Maxi- 
milian's  triumphant  Frenchmen,  after  storming  the  Mexican 
lines.  For  some  reason  the  Mexicans  had  never  removed 
them.  Sitting  in  the  shade  I  wrote  a  passage  for  the  long 
historical  and  descriptive  poem  I  was  then  engaged  on.  Major 
Millen,  an  Irish  soldier  of  fortune  who  had  served  in  Maxi- 
milian's army,  told  me  that  the  march  of  the  French  troops 
through  Mexico  was  only  a  merry  promenade.  The  with- 


PROSE    A  D  DI.N  DA  371 

drawul  of  the  French,  on  the  demand  of  the  American  Secre- 
tary of  State,  William  H.  Seward,  sealed  the  fate  of  Maxi- 
milian. He  was  soon  afterwards  dethroned,  tried  and  shot. 
Carlotta  went  insane. 

The  poetical  passage  referred  to  was  "lifted"  from  an 
unpublished  manuscript  of  mine,  and  converted  into  prose, 
by  an  "eminent  historian,"  and  was  sold  by  him  to  a  great 
newspaper  syndicate.  Allusions  to  the  battle  of  Gettysburg 
were  skillfully  substituted  for  my  references  and  reflections 
on  the  Atlanta  campaign,  and  some  weak  military  doggerel 
was  attempted.  Other  portions  of  "Sun  Worship  Shores"  re- 
ceived attention  from  this  gentleman  with  a  "name."  Then 
the  entire  poem  was  burnt  in  the  earthquake.  Some  of  it  I 
recalled  by  memory,  and  some  I  reclaimed  from  faded  news- 
paper files. 

.lOIl's    WAR    HOKSK 

From  old  time  the  War  Horse  has  deserved   and  received 
admiration.     His  pride,  fidelity  and  courage,  in  the  midst  of 
the  most  terrifying  scenes,  have  won  the  plaudits  of  soldiers. 
Nowhere  is  he  better  portrayed  than  in  the  Book  of  Job. 
"Hast  thou  given  the  horse  strength? 

Hast  thou  clothed  his  neck  with  thunder? 

Canst  thou  make  him  afraid  as  a  grasshopper? 

The  glory  of  his  nostrils   is  terrible. 

He  paweth  in  the  valley,  rejoices  in  his  strength; 

He  goeth  on  to  meet  the  armed  men. 

He  mocketh  at  fear,  and  is  not  affrighted. 

Neither  turneth  he  back  from  the  sword. 

The  quiver  rattleth  against  him, 

The  glittering  spear   and  the   shield. 

He  swalloweth  the  ground  with  fierceness  and  rage, 

Neither    believeth    he    that    it    is    the    sound    of    the 
trumpet; 

He  saith  among  the  trumpets,  Ha!  Ha! 

And  he  smelleth  the  battle  afar  off, 

The  thunder  of  the  captains  and  the  shouting." 

TIN-:  ri/n.MATK  TIIIN<;   IN   UOOZK 

George  Washington  took  a  glass  of  rum  every  morning  be- 
fore breakfast;  Napoleon  was  fond  of  punch,  but  quit  its  use 
because  it  made  his  nose  red;  Burns  drank  the  strongest 
usquebaugh  he  could  find,  and  believed  it  to  be  a  necessary 
of  life;  Byron  took  gin  and  water;  Poe  killed  himself  with 
Baltimore  whiskey;  Edwin  Booth,  the  finest  comedian  and 
tragedian  this  country  ever  had,  and  whom  I  often  saw  anl 
admired,  had  periodical  spells  of  dipsomania,  but  in  his  later 
years  led  a  life  of  total  abstinence.  Shakespeare  died  from 
a  bi4*  dn  nk.  and  so  did  the  great  Macedonian,  Alexander: 
John  L.  Sullivan  drank  everything  and  anything  in  sight, 
but  finally  quit  booze  and  passed  his  latter  days  in  sobriety; 
sweet  poet  Collins  died  in  a  mad  house,  without  alcoholic  aid; 


372  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

Schiller  drank  Rhine  wine  with  enthusiasm ;  had  Dante 
boozed  with  moderation,  he  might  have  written  on  more 
cheerful  topics;  Coleridge  went  to  wreck  with  opium;  Guy 
de  Maupassant  went  mad  from  absinthe;  Henry  Sienkewicz 
died  in  a  crazy  house  from  all  sorts  of  dope;  and  so  on  down 
the  list.  A  booze-fighter  in  search  of  "the  real  thing,"  should 
tackle  marihuana.  Compared  to  it  cocaine  is  a  mild  sedative, 
and  deodorized  wood  alcohol  a  gentle  tonic.  When  a  Mexican 
is  bored  with  ennui,  he  smokes  the  dry  leaves  of  marihuana, 
or  makes  a  brew  out  of  the  weed.  The  first  effect  is  seductive. 
Afterwards  come  tigers,  lions,  boa  constrictors,  green  giraffes, 
elephants  with  four  tails  apiece,  devils  and  hideous  monsters. 
Harmless  blue  monkeys  are  nothing  to  the  menagerie  let 
loose  by  marihuana.  Further  indulgence  persisted  in,  pro- 
duces permanent  madness.  The  peons  of  Sonora  make  fire- 
water out  of  a  kind  of  cactus,  and  call  it  Tequila.  It  is  color- 
less but  powerful.  You  can  get  as  drunk  as  a  lord  on  it. 
The  Yaquis  make  a  devil's  brew  from  tolvache  weed.  Every- 
where, even  in  the  desert,  Man  has  ready  at  hand,  the  ma- 
terials for  getting  himself  in  trouble.  Mother  Nature  provides 
with  a  lavish  hand.  There  is  alcohol  and  poison  in  almost 
everything.  When  our  native  land  is  really  dry — arid — with 
no  mistake  about  it,  booze-fighters  can  go  into  Mexico 
and  raise  gardens  of  cacti.  With  other  poisons  utilized  there, 
a  man  can  have  his  own  dlsdllery,  and  be  always  happy. 

The  safer  plan  is  to  shun  the  booze,  nor  listen  to  the  siren 
songs  of  the  nymphs  of  the  Lurleiberg. 

THE  MACEDONIAN  PLAN 

Persian  monarchs  often  bought  the  public  men  of  early 
Greece.  Even  the  great  Themistocles  became  an  honored 
vassal  at  the  Persian  court,  though  mainly  to  escape* his 
Grecian  enemies.  When  Philip  of  Macedon  was  plotting  the 
overthrow  of  freedom  in  Greece,  his  custom  was  to  influence 
public  men  with  cash.  If  an  ambassador  went  to  a  doubtful 
city  or  state,  the  royal  emissary  was  preceded  by  a  mule 
loaded  with  gold.  Foreign  governments  and  great  foreign 
interests,  have  found  a  weakness  in  the  American  political 
fabric.  They  purchase  the  secret  services  of  men  of  wide 
repute,  and  thus  sway  national  legislation,  or  momentous 
foreign  policies.  Bribes  are  given,  not  always  to  public 
officials,  but  often  to  persons  who  have  power  to  control 
public  officials.  In  some  cases  the  officials  themselves  are 
directly  bribed — by  the  promise  of  place,  power,  opportunities 
of  enrichment,  and,  not  unfrequently,  with  spot  cash.  This 
cannot  be  clearly  shown,  in  most  cases.  The  crime  is  too 
well  concealed.  We  can  only  judge  by  public  results.  On  the 
other  hand,  officials  are  often  domineered  over  by  special 
classes,  insolent  and  tumultuous  in  demands,  and  are  forced 
to  support  ruinous  legislation  by  threats  of  political  extinc- 
tion if  they  refuse.  (Many  of  our  congressmen  die  poor.) 
These  unpleasant  facts  suggest  that  our  republic  may  be  on 


PRO  SK    ADDENDA  373 

t  lit    down   grade,  a  route  taken   by   every  republic  that  ever 
existed. 

<;.  \YRILO    I'KIN/KI* 

On  June  2sth,  i:H4,  at  Sarajevo,  capital  of  Bosnia,  a  tragedy 
occurred  that  precipitated  the  World  War.  Archduke  Francis 
Ferdinand,  Crown  Prince  of  Austria-Hungary,  and  his  mor- 
ganatic wife,  Sophia  Chotek,  Duchess  of  Hohenberg,  came  on 
a  conciliatory  visit  to  Sarajevo.  As  they  rode  on  public 
parade,  a  bomb  was  thrown  at  them.  The  prince 
warded  it  off  with  his  arm.  It  exploded  some  dis- 
tance from  him,  wounding  six  persons.  In  the  afternoon,  as 
the  imperial  pair  rode  out  again,  Gavrilo  Prinzep,  19  years 
of  age,  a  Servian  student,  opened  fire  on  them  with  a  magazine 
revolver  that  discharged  explosive  bullets,  and  killed  both 
of  them.  The  first  shot  struck  the  lady  in  the  abdomen; 
the  second  shot  struck  the  Prince's  neck.  In  both  cases  death 
quickly  followed.  Prinzep  died  on  April  30th,  1918,  in  a 
fortress  near  Prague,  of  tuberculosis  caused  by  harsh  im- 
prisonment. Other  conspirators  received  punishment.  Two 
received  life  imprisonment,  and  four  were  hanged. 

Prince  Ferdinand  was  not  the  son  of  Francis  Joseph,  but 
his  nephew.  He  was  an  unattractive  person — a  religious 
fanatic  with  despotic  inclinations.  Save  for  political  possi- 
bilities, his  death  was  unlamented  in  Austria.  People  and 
nobles  were  glad  he  was  dead. 

BHIT1SII    TKOOPS    IN     MCAK.UJIA 

The  landing  of  eight  hundred  British  soldiers  on  the  island 
of  Corinto,  on  the  western  coast  of  Nicaragua,  in  1895,  caused 
much  excitement  in  the  United  States,  and  also  in  Central 
America.  An  infringement  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine  was 
thought  to  be  intended.  Happily  this  proved  not  to  be  the 
case.  England  is  our  greatest  commercial  rival,  our  chief 
marine  competitor,  and,  possibly,  might  be  our  naval  enemy 
on  the  high  seas.  To  a  great  extent  the  friendship  of 
nations  is  based  on  self-interest.  Fair  treatment  on  both 
sides  is  necessary,  with  a  strict  observance  of  simple  justice 
and  right. 

Senator  Jones  of  Washington  declares:  "This  nation  is 
confronted  with  a  comprehensive  conspiracy  to  drive  Amer- 
ican ships  from  the  seas,  and  divert  the  bulk  of  our  exports 
to  British  bottoms."  For  fifty  years  Congress  has  been  con- 
trolled by  the  trans-Atlantic  steamship  lines,  which  partially 
explains  why  it  is  so  difficult  to  check  foreign  immigration — 
an  evil  that  should  be  ended  entirely.  We  should  especially 
exclude  Japs,  and  the  scum  of  Asia  Minor. 

scon-:  UTIIKI;  TR<»ri',i.i> 

A  poem  of  mine  entitled  "Our  Message  of  Peace"  fore- 
shadowed a  war  in  China,  that  afterwards  came — and  also  the 
armed  intervention  of  the  western  powers.  In  August,  1895, 


374'  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 

T  sent  this  rhyme  to  "Puck,"  at  New  York  City.  On  September 
25th  "Puck"  printed  a  brief  imitation  of  the  poem — just 
enough  to  base  a  cartoon  on — and  had  a  double-page  cartoon 
illustrating  the  subject.  I  wrote,  demanding  pay  for  the 
poem.  H.  L.  Wilson,  "Associate  Editor,"  replied  that  "the 
author  of  the  verses  you  mention,  who  is  Mr.  R.  L.  Cardell, 
never  saw  your  poem,  nor  did  the  devisers  of  the  cartoon 
ever  see  it."  This  reply  I  preserved,  lest  Mr.  Cardell  should 
some  time  assert  I  had  basely  counterfeited  his  somewhat 
debilitated  verse.  I  have  in  this  volume  a  brief  complaint 
about  "The  Demon  If."  Recently,  by  a  newspaper  allusion,  I 
find  that  Mr.  Kipling  has  written  something  about  "If."  What 
he  wrote  I  don't  know,  and  am  too.  busy  to  find  out.  Also,  I 
have  a  short  rhyme  concerning  a  rich  man's  epitaph,  entitled 
"His  Only  Wealth."  Seven  or  eight  years  after  I  wrote  it  I 
found  that  the  same  epitaph  had  received  attention  from  John 
G.  Saxe  a  generation  ago.  With  these  explanations  I  print 
my  own  ditties. 

HISTORICAL 

When  Sardanapalus  made  a  bonfire  of  his  palace  and  his 
wealth,  it  is  computed  that  gold,  silver,  gems,  jewels  and 
precious  stones  vanished  to  the  value  of  forty  billions  of  dol- 
lars. His  wives  and  concubines  perished  with  him.  There 
was  little  left  for  the  enemy  to  "amortize." 

On  March  1,  1920,  a  telegram  from  Paris  confirmed  reports 
that  the  coffin  and  dust  of  Hernando  Cortez  had  been  found  in 
the  vault  of  the  Church  of  Jesus,  in  the  City  of  Mexico. 

Prof.  Strong,  of  Harvard,  puts  the  total  cost  of  the  World 
War,  to  all  participants,  at  about  348,000  Million  Dollars. 

Commander  Bainbridge,  of  the  American  Navy,  places  the 
loss  of  the  Germans  in  the  World  War  as  follows:  Killed  in 
battle,  1,531,148;  missing,  991,340;  wounded,  4,211,481;  died  of 
disease,  155,013.  Total,  6,888,982. 

In  time  of  war  multitudes  of  camp  followers  should  be 
rigidly  excluded  from  armies,  especially  those  who  graft  in  the 
name  of  Charity,  Humanity  and  Religion.  This  would  conduce 
to  discipline,  efficiency  and  comfort,  and  lead  to  victorious  re- 
sults in  battle.  Soul  saving  should  be  attended  to  in  time  of 
peace. 

In  his  effort  to  disarm  the  world,  the  American  Pacifist 
always  stops  with  the  United  States,  leaving  John  Bull,  the 
wily  Jap,  and  the  whole  of  Europe  armed  to  the  teeth.  A 
little  foreign  gold,  now  and  then,  explains  the  mystery. 

Up  to  June  3,  1921,  bills  had  been  introduced  into  the 
legislatures  of  twenty  states  for  limiting  the  shortness  of 
female  skirts,  the  lowness  of  necks;  and  the  thinness  of  ma- 
terials for  women's  gowns  and  accessories.  Is  this  sumptuous 
or  sumptuary  legislation?  What  a  solemn  thing  it  is  to  be 
a  legislative  member  nowadays.  It's  no  job  for  an  indiscreet 
young  man. 

The  Plan  of  the  League  Of  Nations  was  devised  by  the 
diplomatic  plotters  of  the  British  Empire,  and  by  a  conclave 


PROSE    AD  DEN  DA  375 

of  European  Shylork.s  who  are  loaded  down  with  the  worthless 
bonds  of  bankrupt  nations.  These  they  wish  to  dump  on 
the  American  people.  The  Constitution  and  the  details  of  the 
new  Supreme  Imperial  Government  were  written  out  by 
General  Jan  Christian  Smuts,  Premier  of  South  Africa. 
Americans  must  preserve  the  independence  of  their  country. 
It  took  Washington  seven  or  eight  years  to  establish  it.  An- 
other revolutionary  war  may  become  necessary  to  free  us 
from  European  bondage.  We  cannot  be  too  jealously  watchful. 
"Eternal  vigilance  is  the  price  of  liberty."  "Freedom  comes  in 
with  drums  and  trumpets;  then  vanishes  away  we  know  not 
where."  Money  is  a  tremendous  power,  for  good  or  evil,  and 
is  always  busy. 

IX    ME  MORI  AM 

At  the  close  of  the  Civil  War,  on  the  street  at  Richmond, 
Virginia,  a  Union  soldier  picked  up  a  Confederate  five-dollar 
bill  on  which  some  follower  of  the  Lost  Cause  had  written 
these    lines: 
Representing  nothing  on  God's  earth  now,  and  naught  in  the 

waters  below  it, 
As  a  pledge  of  a  nation  that  is  dead  and  gone,  keep  it,  dear 

friend,  and  show  it — 
Show  it  to  those  who  will  lend  an  ear  to  the  tale  that  this 

paper  cannot  tell, 
Of   liberty   born   of   a   patriot's    dream,   of    the    storm-cradled 

nation  that  fell. 
Too   poor   to  possess   the  precious   ores,   and   too   much   of  a 

stranger  to  borrow, 
We  issued  to-day  our  promise  to  pay,  and  hoped  to  redeem 

on  the  morrow. 
The  days  rolled  on,  and  weeks  became  years,  but  our  coffers 

were  empty  still. 
Coin  was  so  rare  that  our  treasury  quaked  if  a  dollar  should 

drop   in  the  till. 
But   the   faith   that   was    in   us   was    strong   indeed,   and   our 

poverty  well  discerned, 
And   these   little   checks   represented    the    pay    that   our   poor 

volunteers  had  earned. 
They   knew   it  had   hardly   a  value  in   gold,   yet  as  gold   our 

soldiers  received  it; 
It  gazed  in  their  eyes  with  a  promise  to  pay,  and  each  patriot' 

soldier  believed  it. 
But  our  boys  thought  little  of  price,  or  of  pay,  or  of  bills  that 

were  then  overdue, 
We  knew   if  it  brought  us  our  bread  to-day  it  was  the  best 

our  poor  country  could  do. 
Keep   it,   for  it  tells  our  history  o'er,   from   the  birth   of  its 

dream  to  the  last ; 
Modest,  and  born  of  the  angel  Hope,  like  the  hope  of  success, 

it  passed. 


376  SONGS    OF    A    MAN    WHO    FAILED 


BANISHING    WAR 

In  his  remarkable  poem  "Darkness,"  Byron  pictures  the 
last  two  men  of  the  human  race.  To  obtain  temporary  light 
they  carefully  gather  up  what  shreds  of  fuel  remain,  and 
kindle  a  blaze.  Looking  on  one  another's  faces  they  see  that 
they  are  enemies,  "and  shriek  and  die."  The  only  way  to 
permanently  banish  war  is  to  exterminate  the  human  race — 
a  job  Mother  Nature  will  attend  to  when  she  gets  a  good 
ready.  Over-population  means  War.  We  now  travel  in  that 
direction  fast.  "Colorado,  population  in  1900,  539,700;  in  1910, 
799,024;  in  1920,  939,629."  Statistics  of  any  part  of  the 
United  States  will  point  the  same  gloomy  moral,  and  often 
more  distinctly.  Increase  of  population  is  no  longer  desir- 
able. It  will  prove  an  evil  soon  and  not  a  benefit.  The  over- 
plus of  other  countries  should  no  longer  be  allowed  to  pour 
into  this  land.  Let  us  not  think  of  ourselves  entirely,  but 
save  a  little  room  for  the  next  generation.  This  is  not 
"everybody's  country" — it  is  ours.  Let  us  keep  it. 

"TIIK    RICHEST  PRESIDENT  THAT  EVER   LEFT 


On  the  26th  of  December  last  a  telegram  was  sent  out  from 
Washington  City  by  the  Associated  Press,  (making  nearly  a 
column  of  fine  type),  which  announced  that  Mr.  Wilson  would 
be  "the  richest  President  that  ever  left  the  White  House." 
The  telegram  explained  the  matter.  It  was,  in  the  main, 
because  of  his  great  frugality  and  fine  management,  and  be- 
cause of  the  large  sale  of  books  .he  wrote  long  ago.  Just 
how  rich  he  is  few  persons  know.  When  he  passes  hence 
and  his  ample  estate  is  portioned  out,  the  general  public 
may  not  then  know.  It  is  unpleasant  to  reflect  that  it  was 
during  the  years  that  the  waste  of  public  money  was  most 
"appalling"  that  he  became  "the  richest  President  that  ever 
left  the  White  House."  In  playing  his  noble  part  of  "Big 
Brother  to  the  World,"  he  also  seems  to  have  been  a  pretty 
good  brother  to  himself — a  proof  of  rare  intellectual  powers. 

Finis 


song* 

failed 


ox   a  man  who 


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